


The Calling

by wonderland



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-09 23:35:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonderland/pseuds/wonderland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Stupid girl," he hissed. "I almost killed you that night, and worse. I still could. Take what I want and then slit your pretty throat before you can even think to call out for your wolves. Is that what you want, little bird? Is that why you're here, so I can finish what I started?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

And so it was she caught him unaware. He spun halfway at the creaking of the door, knew her, and squinted with suspicion as she set her shoulder against the frame. She was given only a brief study before he turned back to his task. He dipped his hand into the basin and slowly drew it back up, water sluicing from the cloth squeezed in his fist.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

She took in the breadth of his shoulders and the wide vee of his bare back, laced with silvery scars and pale above the faded black of his breeches. His hair was pulled back in a knot, a dark ball of tangles threaded with gray. He lifted the cloth to one shoulder and pulled it down the length of his arm and then back again, on the underside and to the tuft of hair that grew at the join. He lingered there and then dipped the cloth back in the basin. The sound of the water as it lapped against the edges was a mirror of the heat pooling low in her belly; liquid, rhythmic, elemental.

She tried to speak but found her words disappearing as he wiped down his other arm and then patted at his chest, his movements efficient but unhurried; no differently, she thought, than they would be were she not there. "If you've something to say, girl, spit it out." The next time he rinsed, the water that ran from the cloth was pinked with blood.

"Are you hurt?" She left the door frame and was almost to him before she could stop herself. There was tangible heat coming off of him this close, waves of warmth and scent and she wished to wrap herself in it, and in him. But he was angry and she'd learned him well enough, in the week she'd been there, not to corner him.

"Your wolves," he growled. "I've a bitch gone into heat and they damn near got her before I could lock her up. One of the yearlings was caught in the scuffle and lost his throat for it. It's more his blood than mine. Creatures from the seven hells is what they are."

He rounded on her, quiet fury writ on his features, the burnt side drawn up tight. She met his eyes briefly and then cast her gaze downward. She felt badly for what had happened and should not have known the yearning she did, should've felt differently, but she didn't. And he couldn't know what it was like for her - when the howling had begun, when she had felt the surge of need within her. "They kill another of my dogs and they'll meet the edge of my blade, I swear it. You say you're bonded with them; if that's so, keep them away from my kennels."

"It does not work that way. I cannot command them only … share with them. Grant them a bit of my … civility, if I can."

"Civility? That's rich, considering what's happened. If that's your magic, just now would've been a bloody fine time to put it to practice, don't you think?"

His scorn bit at her and she felt another rush of shame. But even then it was not enough to overcome the stronger emotions pulsing like blood through her veins. "I am sorry, truly. I have tried to tell you. I know what they feel, I can share in it, but I haven't the ability to bend them to my will." She darted a glance up and murmured, "It is more mine to theirs, it seems."

"And if it's me they decide to come after next?"

"That will not happen," she said, and knew it to be true.

"How can you be sure?"

"Because I know. You will come to no harm as long as they are certain I am safe with you. Oh …" she breathed and stepped closer. There was blood welling up through the thatch of dark hair that covered his chest, from three long gouges just below his collarbone. She reached out and his hand snapped up, enclosing her wrist and stilling her fingers a bare inch from his skin. A deep tremor ran through her.

"Don't," he ordered. "They're no more than scratches."

It took only the slightest of tugs for him to relinquish his hold. And then, despite his warning, she tentatively laid her fingertips against him and knew the warmth of Sandor's blood. She pressed her palm over the flat pad of muscle there and felt the slow beating of his heart. He did not move to stop her but she could feel his eyes upon her, curious and ... something else.

 _Wary_ , she realized with a start. And then felt a fool that she had not known it sooner. There was a part of him, beneath the scarred and battered warrior, that was afraid of her. It was not simply the oddity of her connection to the wolf pack or the way they had led her to him, somehow finding him hidden away in the once-abandoned crofter's cottage, living a solitary and simple life, just him and his dogs. It was older than that, this fear, and went all the way back to her first days in King's Landing. She wouldn't have been able to understand it then, for she had been barely more than a child. But in the years that passed she had come to know the power a woman possessed, and she was no longer so innocent.

A puff of air escaped her, a soft expulsion of laughter, and she raised her eyes to his. "They're deeper than scratches. They need to be properly cleaned and dressed."

"A healer now too, are you?"

"If you'll sit," she said, ignoring his jab, "I'll see to it." He started to turn away and she held to his arm. "Oh, for the sake of the gods, Sandor, let me do this. You must stop behaving as though I mean to kill you."

He gave a sharp bark of laughter. "And what would you know of killing a man, little bird?" he asked as she nudged him back and onto a high stool next to the window. She opened the shutters for more light and the rays of the setting sun blinded her. As she squeezed her eyes shut, she found herself back on a hillside in the Vale, arms wrapped hard around her middle, shivering as she watched her pack devour the man she'd purposely led there, to his death. Sandor didn't press his question, no doubt believing she knew nothing about such things, and so she shook off the image and got busy filling the basin with fresh water and collecting soap and clean cloths. She arranged them neatly on the table next to her.

"Why is it," she found herself wondering aloud, "that you've not asked what brought me here after all this time, or what happened to me after you left King's Landing?"

"I know enough. Don't want to know more," was his gruff response. "I've enough ghosts of my own; I have no need of yours."

"Aren't you at all curious?" She wet a cloth and scrubbed the sliver of lye soap across it and then turned to him, looking for permission. He grunted in response, gave a slight nod of his head and then drew a hissing breath as she pressed into the gouges with the soapy rag.

"Would my knowing change anything that's happened?" he countered, awkwardly tucking his chin to watch her work.

"No," she admitted.

"Then why are you wasting breath on it? Be quick about this," he added, waving his hand in the small space between them. "I need to get back to the kennels, make sure your wolves aren't circling again. It's going to be a bloody long night."

"You needn't worry. They've gone some distance away and are hunting. Your dogs will be safe. They'll not be bothered again." She wet a second cloth and dabbed at his wounds.

"How do you –" He stopped as if he'd realized what he was about to ask and snorted instead. "Never mind, I don't want to know."

She told him anyway. "It's nothing I've done. They think you the fiercest of the pack after what's happened. They have tasted your anger and will hesitate before doing anything to provoke it a second time. I felt it in them."

"They're not my bloody pack," he argued.

"They are yours now, as much as they are mine, whether you claim them or not. I did not choose them either – they came to me. They found me, just as they found you. My only choice was to follow them … or not."

She was speaking without much thought for her words. They served only as a means of distracting him as she took her time playing at cleaning up wounds already as clean as they would get, relishing the chance to touch him so freely, to have him pliant and accommodating for once. With no effort at all they had begun to communicate with only glances and the lightest of touches: her fingertips against his arm brought the shifting of his shoulder more towards the light, as she wanted. She lifted her chin and he mimicked her, allowing her to wipe away a spattering of blood from his neck.

"It is truly quite extraordinary," she murmured, "to know what it is to be untamed, as they are. To seek out what is desired with no doubts, no thought given to the consequences. They know what they want. And if no one attempts to stop them, they simply take it." She laid aside the cloth she'd used to pat his wounds dry and felt a small tug. Looking to Sandor, she followed his gaze to see the lock of auburn hair he held captive between fingers and thumb. He rubbed at it thoughtfully and then lifted his face until it was level with hers. His eyes were deeply gray, dark and probing, and she found she couldn't look away - and didn't particularly want to.

"Listen to you," he said. "You talk of the wolves as though you're one yourself. Maybe you are. Wolf … and half a wildling, too. You've more the look of them, now, than a daughter of Winterfell."

That much was true. Her hair had grown longer, well below her waist, thick and unruly with curls, her dress rough-spun wool and without decoration, scratchy on her skin without a shift beneath it but warm, with simple laces that tied down the front. Her definition of luxury had changed when she had joined the pack and begun her travels, learning to get by with the barest of necessities and taking small pleasures wherever she could. The man before her in that moment, long legs bracketing her as she stood between them, was to Sansa like the ripest, sweetest fruit, a flesh and blood creation of everything she had gone without until then. With his ravaged, terrible face and the smell of his sweat sharp in her nostrils, the curves and planes of his powerful muscles beneath her hands, his skin softer than it had any right to be. She wanted him with a primal need.

Somehow her mouth was still able to form words, the sound of them filling spaces that seemed suddenly charged with anticipation. "Sometimes I think the wolves smarter than us, or at least more practical. If they are hungry, they hunt and eat. When they're thirsty, they find water and drink their fill. When tired, they simply stop to rest. And when the urge comes upon them, when the cycle of the moon tells them the time is right, they mate. It's all so very … simple."

Sandor released the lock of hair he'd been holding. His knuckles skimmed lightly over the upper slope of her breast as his hand fell away, and she fought the urge to grab it up and press his palm there.

"You're not, you know," he said, his voice settling rough in her ears – the already distinctive rasp even more pronounced. A fresh fission of heat shot through her and she almost lost her legs. She grasped for something to steady herself and her open hand landed on the wide plank of his thigh. They looked down at the same time, absorbing the tableau presented them, and then back up. Their eyes met again and she found she could manage barely more than a whisper.

"I'm not what?"

"Safe. With me. You never were."

"I am not that girl anymore, Sandor."

"Might be you're right. But I am still that man."

"I was once afraid of you. Now I am not."

"You should be."

"Why? What could you possibly do to me that other men have not already done?"

It happened so quickly and without warning that she didn't even have time to flinch. She found her back pressed painfully into the rough timbers of the wall behind her, feet barely grazing the dirt floor, held there by the steel grip of his fingers around her arms.

" _I don't want to know_ ," he snarled in her face, each word forced out between clinched teeth. "They were never meant to have you, these men. You were supposed to be _mine_."

"You left me."

"You wouldn't come."

"You didn't give me the chance to decide."

"Stupid girl," he hissed. "I almost killed you that night, and worse. I still could. Take what I want and then slit your pretty throat before you can even think to call out for your wolves. Is that what you want, little bird? Is that why you're here, so I can finish what I started?"

 _It is not my death I want from you_ , she thought, _but my life_. And before she could think any more, pushed up on her toes and kissed him hard on the mouth. His lips were dry, chapped, and yet oddly supple against hers, except where the edge of his mouth was more scar than not. His fingers clinched harder around her arms, a painful spasm, before dropping away. And when her hands flew to his shoulders to regain her balance, he was absolutely rigid beneath them, as unforgiving as stone. But his mouth moved, a twitch before coming open, and she breathed a single word into him. " _Please_."

And then his hands were on her again, and everywhere. Tangled in her hair and smoothing down her back. Up her ribs and cupping her breasts, only to leave them so he could palm the flare of her hips, the curve of her backside, frantic and rough, his hands warm through the fabric of her dress and so very large, encompassing. He broke the kiss and she whimpered as he buried his face at her throat, and her arms snaked around his back. She sagged against him as she felt his lips, hot and wet, tracing the path of the blood pulsing heavy just beneath her skin. Then his hands were at her face, cupping it as he drew her to him, and he groaned, "Damn you," before covering her mouth with his.

Their tongues met and danced and he spun them around and grasped her at the waist, lifting her as easily as if she weighed no more than a child. Her legs came up and encircled him, ankles locked at the small of his back. When he eased her down she felt the surface of the table beneath her but kept hold of him, arms and legs wrapped tight. He shoved her away, just enough to get his hands between them, and started fumbling at the laces of her gown, cursing under his breath, a litany of surrender and need. "Why did you have to come here? Why couldn't you leave me be? Damn you."

She silenced him with another kiss and their hands tangled and fought as she reached down and fumbled for the fastening at his waist and his dropped to her legs, the laces forgotten. He shoved at her skirts, pushing them higher and out of his way. And then his calloused palms met her bare skin and his thumbs traced wide paths of fire up her inner thighs as he spread them wide. Sansa yelped, the rough edges of his nails scraping her as he tore her small clothes away, and she groaned as his thumb pressed hard at her center and slipped up her folds. Muttering, "Bloody hells, Sansa," he yanked her to the edge of the table just as she reached into his breeches and freed him. He was hot and hard, heavy in her hand, and she placed him at her opening and squirmed ever closer, pulling at him, desperate to have him as far inside her as she could take him.

"Wait, wait," he rasped.

But she ignored him, retorting, "No, now." Lifting her legs, she set her heels against his backside and pulled up just far enough. And then with a single thrust, impaled herself upon him.

Sansa watched his face go blank for a heart's beat and then he looked down to where they were joined and back at her. His eyes sparked hot, his upper lip curled and he growled low in his throat. Grasping her knees, he pushed them back and further apart and she slumped until she was bent almost in two, her shoulders pressed against the wall behind her, her head thumping against it with every stroke he made. But it didn't matter; none of it mattered. Not the rough surface of the table under her or the way her hair was painfully trapped behind her; not the dull ache that'd started up in her thighs, the muscles stretched taut to cradle his wide hips. There was nothing but her skin and his hands upon it, moving up to finish with the laces and shoving apart the front of her gown, fingers outspread and then holding roughly to her breasts. Nothing but the warm, wet cave of his mouth as he dipped his head and pulled in a nipple, working it with his tongue. Nothing but the sweet fullness where they were joined, wave after wave of heat and light coursing through her with every frantic slap of his hips against hers.

His mouth skidded up her chest, his teeth latched on to her earlobe and he whispered, breathy and disbelieving, "What are we doing?"

"Fucking," she said.

And then he stopped.

He straightened his arms, looming over her, buried deep within her, and they stared at each other. She took in the wildness in his eyes and deeper, beyond that, the subtle mixture of need and caution, so much like the look he'd given her earlier. Then she heard them faintly through the open window, with its sunlight that painted them in a wide swath of gold. Heard her wolves begin to howl. Thoughtless and yearning, she wrenched up, took the join of his shoulder and neck between her teeth and bit down hard.

Sandor snarled and shook himself free. He slammed his open hand against her chest and pushed her back against the wall, his eyes dark and fearsome. And she did the only thing she could. She grinned up at him, wide and toothy and confident. Though she knew he could easily snap her neck before she could blink, she also knew, deep down in every cell of her body, that he never would.

He proved her right when his own mouth spread in an equally toothsome smile and his entire face transformed. And then he began to move again and to touch her again. Gently this time, a slower and more thorough examination of every part of her his hands could reach. And somehow her gown was gone and he'd kicked away his boots and breeches and it was all skin and light and heat. Once more slumped against the wall, her head lolling bonelessly on her neck, he shifted as he lifted her up from the unforgiving timbers, and he made of his arms a cradle for her to lie in. Her head rolled back and he rained kisses up and down her throat, whispery soft and tender.

"Little bird," he whimpered.

"Hush, it's all right," she responded, pulling at his head until he was peering down at her. She cupped his ruined cheek in her hand. "It's all right. Love me, just love me."

And so he did, as the the wolves' song called them home.


	2. Chapter 2

She thought him asleep and was herself drowsing when he spoke, his words muffled against her skin. "I am not a good man."

Night had fallen and the breeze through the open window had grown chilly for it. But she was warm enough, blanketed by him as they lay naked on his narrow bed. His head rested high on her stomach, faced turned away, his arms curled under and around her, one leg thrown heavy over hers. His proclamation held no hint of indecisiveness, as if he might have hoped she would counter it with a protest, tell him he was wrong. It was offered as a hard and simple truth. And so she remained silent and waited.

"The monks tried to make something better of me. For two years I knelt and prayed, until my knees were scabbed and my mouth empty. All I learned was that the gods have no love for me. The Stranger might've once, but that's it, and I won't serve him no more. I don't much like people. I like my dogs. They're obedient and loyal and they don't care if I drink too much or don't bathe like I should. I do as I want here, when and however I please. I've made a life and I'm content."

Sansa's hand lay between his shoulder blades and she slid it up and began working loose his knot of hair, freeing it and smoothing it down his back. He wore it longer now than he had in King's Landing.

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked after a short time.

He turned and rubbed his face against her, his whiskers prickly on her skin. She squirmed beneath him but he only held her tighter and then went still. "This … this bond you have with the wolves. I don't understand it, don't bloody like it either; it's unnatural. But I believe it, I have to. I won't deny what I've seen with my own eyes."

He suddenly uncurled and in one smooth motion was on his side facing her, propped on an elbow. She shifted and turned to give him more room. Then he reached across her and pulled one of the blankets over, until she was covered almost to the chin. She took it as a gesture of kindness and then quickly reconsidered. Even with only the dim light of the lantern on the night table behind her, she could see the goose bumps raised up on him. But he hadn't moved to cover them both, only her. Reaching out from under the cover and laying a hand on his arm, Sansa knew with unexpected clarity what he had done. Though unconcerned with his own nudity, he was compelled to remove hers from his sight. Was it shame? Surely not, for he had done nothing wrong, and had given far more than he'd taken.

"Why did you –"

"You say they led you here, your pack. How?"

She answered him before she could consider her words. "I thought you didn't want to know."

"Don't mock me," he said. Though his tone remained level, the warning was implicit. "How did you know to come here?"

She blinked confusedly and shook her head. "I didn't. It was as I said. I did not know where I was being led, just that I must follow. I did not even know this cottage was your home until you appeared in the doorway. I swear to you, I don't know how they found you, only that they did."

"You say you know what they're feeling. So what did you feel in them?"

She was becoming uncomfortable with his sharp scrutiny and sat up, pulling the blanket with her, so he wasn't looking down at her anymore. She frowned at him. "I am not sure I can explain."

"Try."

"Why does it matter?"

"Because I bloody well want to know, that's why!"

She met his gaze and held it long enough that he dropped his eyes and scrubbed his brow. He muttered hoarsely to himself, "Still no manners."

She suppressed an unbidden smile. They may not have turned him to the gods, these monks he'd spoken of, but the man she had known a lifetime ago would never have voiced anything that sounded so much like an apology. Not without a dagger at his throat – and likely not even then. She touched him briefly on the shoulder and lay back down, staring up at the thatch and timber roof of his tiny bedroom.

"It's …" she began and then trailed off, searching for the right words. 'It's a … calling, of sorts. A need, an instinct. Like pangs of hunger or when you are drawn to a place or a person and you do not know why. But it's more than that because it is shared, felt equally among the pack. And through the sharing it grows larger and stronger and then there is only a sense that you must find the source of this calling and answer it. I'm sorry, I'm not explaining it well." She looked over to find him studying her, brow furrowed and his mouth set in a hard line. "What is it?"

"Are you saying this is my doing, that I somehow brought you here?"

"I don't know. I suppose it's possible."

"Bugger that, it's not _me_. And this," he spat out, suddenly angry again, "what happened here; how much of it was this _calling_ you speak of? Or is it just coincidence I've a dog in heat and the next I know, you've got me balls-deep in you?"

Her hesitation was miniscule, or at least it seemed that way to her. But it lasted long enough to bring him to his feet. He strode to where their clothing had ended up on the floor and pulled on his breeches, his movements sharp and jerky.

"Sandor, wait."

"I've heard enough," he snapped. "Over half my life's been spent under one Lannister's thumb or another, subject to their whims and doing as they bid - no matter how vile. Well, I'm my own man now and I won't be used again, not by you or your bloody damned wolves. I had the right of it: they're hellish creatures if they can do such things. And what does that make us?"

"Sandor, please, you don't understand."

"I understand plenty well." He yanked on his tunic and then his boots. "I'm leaving. There's a village not far from here and I'm in need of supplies. I'll be back on the morrow."

"You're leaving? Now?"

"Yes, _leaving_. Still the chirping little bird, aren't you?" He stopped in the doorway and swung back to glare at her. "Stay or go, girl, it's your choice. But I want those fucking wolves gone before I'm back, else I _will_ cut them down."

Sansa waited until she heard the labored creak of the wagon wheels outside the window and then padded slowly into the dark of the main room. There was a tender ache between her legs and her thighs were sticky with Sandor's seed. The door of the cottage stood ajar and she stood and listened to the crickets and the night birds as they sang their peculiar songs. Dropping the blanket from her shoulders, she folded down onto it, crossing her legs in front of her. A sharp breeze whistled through the doorway and bathed her exposed skin in its cool breath. She shivered once, deeply, as her skin pricked and her nipples pulled tight. Then she hung her head, a curtain of red falling all around her, pooling on the floor, and closed her eyes. And then she reached, and all else ceased to exist.

She felt them some unmeasured time later, and heard their answering cry coming from far to the south and deep within the wood. Her sense of them grew stronger and soon the hounds in their kennels found their voices, adding their mournful bays as the pack came ever closer.

The wolves slid easy through the open door and surrounded her, sniffing at her hair, tasting her skin with rough tongues. She greeted each in turn: the black and silver male, the two fawn-colored females, the young gray. Touched them all, stroked along their coarse, thick pelts, rubbed noses and ears. Eventually they settled around her in a crude circle, panting softly, their breath hanging misty in the air.

She had not been entirely truthful with Sandor, for she was able to more directly influence her pack than she'd claimed. But her omission was, in her mind, necessary, and done to protect them both. Telling all would only lead to more questions for which she hadn't answers and the possibility of having to explain what the pack had done for her, what she had asked of them. She knew herself no less a killer than Sandor had been when wielding his sword in service to the crown – perhaps even more so, for he at least had a cloak of sworn duty in which to drape himself. She had only her need for vengeance and an oft-repeated bit of advice.

_Whatever you do, Alayne, make certain your hands are clean._

She thought back on Sandor's threat and knew it for bravado. He had seen the pack's ferocity and what they were capable of. If they sensed true danger to themselves they wouldn't hesitate to rip him apart, sword or not. In the end, he was no wolf, only a man. She would not allow any harm to come to him. The pack had brought her to Sandor and she would not watch him die, as she had so many others. Still, she well knew the futility of trying to stop him if he let slip clear thinking and went to make good on his word. There was only one way to be certain all remained safe. Sansa came up on the balls of her feet, hot tears blurring her vision as she swiveled slowly and laid her hand upon each wolf's tufted brow, and did what needed be done.

****

**…**

He came back late afternoon the following day, the hounds in their pens announcing his arrival well before the wagon was visible. It finally appeared, creaking and groaning, as Sandor steered it around the thick stand of trees just past the edge of the yard. She stopped her digging and watched as he passed her on his way to the stone shed just to the side of the cottage. He did not offer a greeting and barely even a look.

The small wagon was loaded with crates and sacks and barrels - enough supplies, it seemed to her, to last him a goodly amount of time. Or two people for a lesser period. He jumped from the wagon, tied the horse to the cross post and then began unloading what he'd brought. Curiosity got the best of her and she pushed to her feet, swiping the dirt from her hands as she joined him.

"Might I help?" she asked.

Sandor straightened from the crates he'd been stacking and gave her a cursory glance. "Never took you for one to play in the dirt. What are you doing over there?"

"There are some lovely wildflowers growing back behind the cottage, just inside the tree line. I thought to clear a spot there by the front door and move a few. They have glorious blooms of red and white. I thought perhaps …" She couldn't quite figure out the sideways look she was getting and wanted very much to reach and touch him, but she didn't. "I don't know what I thought."

He snorted and spat. "Flowers. For all the good they will do. You're wasting your time, little bird. The ones you saw out back will die if you see fit to bring them round here. They won't grow in the sunlight. They're wood flowers, they need the shade."

"Oh," she said, disappointed.

He wiped an arm across his brow, reached under the bench of the wagon and brought out a sagging skin. She caught a whiff of wine as he worked the cork loose. Not a sweet gold of the Arbor but a sour red. He took a long pull and then silently offered it to her. She shook her head and he shoved the cork back in and laid it aside.

"Are they gone, then?" He made a show of looking around, turning a slow circle before coming to a stop facing her. He weaved a bit as he went still and she saw that his eyes were heavily hooded.

"You're drunk."

He laughed. "Not yet. But I might be before the night's over. Are they gone?" he asked again.

She gave a terse nod and turned away, walking back in the direction of the cottage. She was halfway to the door when he called out to her. "Girl! I thought you wanted to help."

She turned back around. "I've changed my mind."

That elicited a louder and longer bout of laughter. It eventually trailed off into a coughing fit as he rummaged through the wagon and pulled out a canvas sack. "At least take this in with you. And don't drop it." He swung it underhand and loosed it into the air. She managed to catch it with her fingertips and drew it up, hugging it against her chest. Whatever was in it was lumpy and soft, except at the top where it was cinched closed, and at the bottom. There, something hard poked her in the arm she had wrapped around it.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Open it and find out," he answered. "Now go on with you. I needs get this put away."

She left him to his work and settled into one of the oversized chairs that flanked the small hearth. As she untied the cord at the top of the sack she heard Sandor begin to sing, raspy and off-key. It was a ribald tune she soon recognized as one sung often in the Great Hall at Winterfell, when it was just the men left there after a feast of some sort and they were deep in their cups, the gentle ladies elsewhere and the children put to bed. All except for the ones who would sneak barefoot back to the hall to peer around a corner at the noisy groups of fierce and bearded Northmen, as she and Arya had often done.

"They're like wild animals," her sister had once remarked, giggling and unaware of how close to the truth she was. Sansa's fingers stilled as she allowed the pang of sadness at the thought of her sister to move through her and then to slowly dissipate. Where once she had shoved away all thought of her family, determined to avoid the pain, the last several years had taught her that even a sense of loss was a better thing than feeling nothing at all. And yet sometimes now, with the advent of her nascent gift, she wished she couldn't feel quite so much.

Amused by her own inconstancy, Sansa pulled open the sack and peered inside. She let out a gasp and rose from the chair, moving quickly to the wash basin and pitcher on a side table. She poured just enough water in the bowl to scrub the remaining dirt from her hands and then settled back in the chair, placing the sack between her feet. She reached in and pulled out the silver hairbrush and comb and laid them in her lap. Next came an oval bundled in a length of silk the color of lilacs. She knew before it was completely unwrapped what it was. A looking glass with a slender handle, also worked in silver, the back finely engraved with flowers and vines that matched those on the brush and comb. A set made for a dressing table, and much like the one her lady mother had owned.

Sandor had no mirrors there in the cottage - a thought which snuck up on her even as her hand flew up and covered her mouth in a gesture of delight and sadness both. Of course he would have little desire for anything that would cast his reflection back at him. But it had never been a thing she'd pondered before then, and one that might never have come to her if not for the gift she held. Hesitantly, Sansa lifted the glass in front of her and saw herself clearly for the first time in months.

She looked a fright. Untamed curls, lightened by the sun, framed a face smudged with dirt and tanned a golden brown. Darker still were the generous dustings of freckles across her cheeks, nose, and brow. Her eyes appeared an unearthly blue against her skin and the rounded face she'd once worn had been chiseled by hard travel. Her cheekbones stood high and sharp, their edges a stark contrast to the fullness of her lips. For just a moment, Sansa saw her mother reflected back at her. Sighing, she set the mirror aside and dug deeper into the sack.

Before long her lap was filled with two new gowns, simply cut but easily altered, and of a softer fabric than the rough wool she owned. There was also a plain brown cloak within, and a round brooch of tarnished bronze to fasten it. Along with the length of lilac silk were several more besides, dyed soft green and silver gray and the reddish-brown of autumn leaves. At the very bottom of the sack was a plain wooden box, filled with needles and thread, buttons and ribbons, pieces of embroidery cloth and frames, even a pair of shears.

She was happily poking through the contents of the box when she glanced up and found him standing in the doorway, his large frame blocking all but a little of the light from without. She found herself instantly abashed.

"Forgive me, I've forgotten my manners. I should have come to you right away, to thank you. Instead I've been sitting here thinking only of myself and how lovely …" She trailed off as he folded his arms and cocked his head. She couldn't see his eyes for the light behind him, but she could feel them and her stomach was suddenly aflutter. "This was very generous of you, Sandor. Thank you."

"No need to go on about it. I'm sick of seeing you in the same gown, is all. Ugly one at that. Make yourself something pretty instead. If you truly want to thank me, you'll have supper on the table when I return. I have to tend to the dogs."

And then he wheeled around and was gone.

****

**…**

She tried her best, recalling the few times she'd watched Sandor as he'd prepared their meals. She stoked the fire and hung a pot of water and then tossed in chunks of dried beef. After that she carefully cut up an onion and a few limp and wrinkled carrots, along with a potato sprouting eyes. She added them to the pot and wished for some fresh herbs from the garden to go along, but couldn't be sure which she'd seen him use and didn't want to chance ruining the stew. So she left it to cook and settled back in a chair, draping a length of silk around her neck and carefully working the tangles from her hair.

She did not know this man whose home she had invaded, not really; she had only fragments to piece together. She pulled from her memory moments from the week she'd spent there and mulled them over, struggling to understand why it was that her pack had led her there and why she was so drawn to Sandor, where once she'd been much more cautious.

That he cared for her in some small way was evident. She had known for many a year – though she had discovered it only in retrospect, as she'd thought back to their encounters in the capital. That he desired her, too, was an unmistakable truth, and she suspected he always had, even when she was too young to understand it for what it was. He did not frighten her anymore, for she had dealt with men who were truly evil and knew the difference. His gruff behavior, she had determined, was a facade and one dented and worn thin over the passing years, more easily penetrated than before. He was suspicious of the means by which she'd come to be there, but not of her - only the wolves. He didn't strike her as the superstitious type, but he was the sort who mistrusted things he could not easily explain. And that was all she really knew of him. She yearned for more.

There were moments of clarity with Sandor, fleeting and jagged, that came to her. But they were exceptions and seemed to happen only when she could be touching him. And what she felt then was not like that of her wolves: fundamental and easily grasped. There were layers and depths to Sandor that were beyond her ken, and too brief to grab hold of and examine.

She closed her eyes for a moment and reached, but she could not sense her pack anymore. They were too distant. There was a small place inside her hollowed out by their absence, a connection lost, and she felt less for it. She did not dwell on it though. Sansa had become adroit at accepting the lack of precious things. Besides, she knew a part of her would remain always with the pack, as they would with her, so she had not truly lost them.

Sandor came back just after dark, as the stew bubbled away over the fire and the rich aroma of meat and vegetables filled the small cottage. He'd bathed in the stream, it seemed, for he was wet and bare-chested, fresh wineskin in one hand and his soiled jerkin and tunic in the other. Rivulets of water streamed down his neck and chest and his hair hung in thin ribbons around his face. He gave her a glance as he tossed his clothes onto a chair and made his way to the hearth. Pulling a large wooden spoon from a peg on the wall, he squatted down and dipped it into the cooking pot. Dripping broth, he brought it to his nose and took a deep whiff and then a bite, teeth bared and lips pulled back so as not to burn them. He chewed and grunted, pushed up and told her, "Needs salt. There in the green jar, the one with the cork. And next to it, the brown one? Throw a small handful of that in and it might be worth eating." He raised the wineskin for a good look, shrugged, and then uncorked it, pouring a large measure into the pot. Then he disappeared into the bedroom.

He came out in a fresh tunic a few minutes later, scrubbing a cloth over his head as she finished stirring the dried herbs and salt into the stew, and sat down in his usual chair at the table. Folding his arms upon the pocked and dented surface he watched as she gathered bowls and spoons and went for the ladle. "Never mind that," he said. "Bring cups and come sit for a minute, girl. Share some wine with me."

She sat across from him as he poured out the red and pushed a cup her way. He took a healthy drink and studied her as she matched him. She grimaced at the sourness but swallowed it down anyway, and then fixed her features into placidity and waited him out. Sometimes he would prattle on with no prompting on her part, other times he kept his thoughts to himself. But she recalled from King's Landing that wine seemed to loosen his tongue.

"How long to work the rat's nest out of your hair?" he finally asked.

Self-consciously she tugged at a lock and then pushed it behind her ear. "Till just now," she admitted. The wine sat warm in her stomach, pleasant even, and she took another drink.

"Time well spent, I'd say." He drained his cup and refilled it and then added a splash to hers. "And you'll make use of the rest?"

"The dresses and silks and things? Yes, of course." She almost allowed another word of thanks to leave her mouth but bit it back, remembering what her initial courtesy had brought. Instead she asked what had been on her mind since she'd first seen the contents of the sack. "How did you know I would still be here?"

"I didn't."

"But you hoped I would," she pressed. "Else why bring back items that would be of no use to you otherwise?"

"Easy enough to return them next trip, exchange for things I actually need," he countered.

"What did you give in trade for them?"

"Pick of the next litter." He said it casually enough but she knew how dear the cost. His hounds were known to be the best in the Barrowlands, he'd told her, and she suspected a prized pup would normally bring him much more than a few garments and a looking glass.

"You're not bothered by my being here, then?"

"Were I bothered, little bird, you wouldn't be here and we would not be having this conversation."

They exchanged a long look and she downed more of the wine, even though it had already begun to go to her head. "It was just the wolves you didn't want." His mouth drew tight and she impulsively reached across the table and laid her hand on his arm. "Why did you insist I send them away?"

He moved his arm out of her grasp and drained his cup a second time. Reaching for the wineskin he retorted, "Why did you want me to fuck you so badly? How much of that was your need and how much the bloody wolves'?"

"Some of both," she confessed straight away, despite her embarrassment at his blunt inquiry. He lowered his cup, his ruined face tinged with unease. "But they cannot make me desire something I don't want to begin with. I knew their urges and they, in turn, felt the same in me. The sharing makes the sense of it stronger, more immediate, that's all. Why did you want them gone?"

"They led you here, didn't they? Who's to say they couldn't just as easily lead you away?" He turned his face from her as soon as the words left his mouth, unwilling to meet her astonished look. Gruffly he said, "Are you going to feed me or not? A man shouldn't have to go hungry at his own table."

Sansa rose without a word and filled their bowls. What he had unexpectedly given her was much more than she would've hoped for, and she tucked that knowledge and his confession close, and let it warm her like wine.

He didn't say much as they ate, reverting to grunts or short exchanges as she shouldered the weight of the conversation. She told him about the glass garden at Winterfell and how she would help her mother tend to the flowers. Shared memories of harvest feasts and the beauty of sudden summer snows. She spoke of her brothers and Arya and how she had both loved and feared her father and admired her mother. And all the time he spooned stew into his mouth and grunted at her and kept their cups filled with sour red. By the time he'd cleaned his third bowl with a final chunk of hard bread swept around the edges, Sansa was drowsy and feeling the sort of capriciousness one finds in the bottom of a wine cup.

"Tell me something," she blurted.

"What should I tell you?"

"Is it such an impossible thing to imagine, that I might want you?"

He chuckled low and gazed at her with sleepy eyes that matched her own. "Look at me, girl. What do you think? Think I've spent much time fighting off pretty highborn women eager to warm my bed? If I had back all the coin I've spent on whores over the years I'd be lord of my own keep by now, raising dogs in proper kennels instead of the shit-for-sheds I have now."

"Some women might find you attractive." She smiled at his outburst of laughter and went on despite it. "Though there is much to be said for a handsome face, appearances are not the proper measure of a man."

"Tell me that when you're faced with the Knight of Flowers. Don't think I've forgotten the way you'd swoon over the splendid noblemen in their fancy clothes and their perfumed skin. Pretty girls like you all dream of shiny knights and comely princes, don't they?"

"I had a prince, if you'll recall, a king in fact. And look what it got me: fearful for my life and married off to a Lannister, followed by a succession of other handsome men eager for my lands and my title. Those were the dreams of a child, Sandor, and I am not that anymore."

Her proclamation earned her an extended and probing study. She held very still, not daring to move, as he hesitantly reached across the table and ran his fingertips gently down the side of her face.

"What do you dream of now, little bird?"

She caught his hand as it fell and clasped his fingers as they came to rest on the table. The contrast of his large calloused hand held by her much smaller, delicate fingers was a revelation to her, a thing of beauty she had not expected.

"I dream of freedom and of wild things. I dream of my family and of Winterfell, always. And I dream of having a home again and a man who is gentle and brave and strong." She looked up and found his eyes on her, deep and languorous pools of gray.

"I can take you there," he said. "A week's ride and we could be-"

"No. Winterfell is gone. All that remains are its bones and the blackened ground where it once stood so strong. And all that remains of House Stark sits before you in a ragged gown. The bloodline will die with me. I am the last of my kind."

"But there could be … children … someday."

She dropped her eyes and shook her head, his rare and tender offer of hope leaving her feeling suddenly maudlin. "Are you foolish enough to believe my lord husbands did not take advantage of every opportunity to put an heir in my belly? Their seed would not take. It seems I am not meant to mother any man's child. It's probably for the best," she finished, quickly swiping away an errant tear. Disturbed by her show of weakness, she rose from the table and had to stop a moment to get her bearings as the room threatened to spin on her. Too much wine. She gathered their bowls and spoons and turned to set them in the dry sink.

She heard the scrape of the chair and startled only a little when his arms came around her waist and he pulled her against him. Dipping his head and brushing the hair away from her neck with the tip of his nose he murmured, "Just because you can't, it don't mean we shouldn't try. There's the fun in it."

She sniffed and gave a chuff of laughter that caught on a sob. Leaning back in his arms, she wrapped her own on top of his and tilted her head, giving him better access to her neck. He nipped and kissed and licked there, until she shivered and guided his hands up.

Sandor enthusiastically took over and she stood languid in his arms as he filled his hands with her breasts, his thumbs circling her nipples, urging them erect beneath the rough wool of her bodice. She could feel him growing hard against her bottom and arched her back as one hand left a breast and slid down her stomach. She gasped at the suddenness of his fingers shoving between her legs and the heel of his hand pressing hard against her mound. Even through the barrier of her dress she could feel the heat of his skin and her answering warmth as it gathered and expanded where his fingers worked against her folds and the sensitive nub of flesh above them.

"Do you still want me as much, Sansa," he rasped in her ear, "now that your wolves are gone?"

"Yes," she sighed.

"Then say it," he demanded.

"I want you. Just as much."

He let go and spun her until she faced him. That was dizzying enough, but not half so much as when he brought his mouth down upon hers and kissed her quite soundly. He gripped her hips in his hands and then reached around and smacked her on the bottom.

"Best you take off that ragged gown of yours and come fuck me proper, then. The way a noble girl should."

He turned and walked toward the bedroom without another look. All thought of propriety swept away by desire and sour red, Sansa followed hard on his heels.


	3. Chapter 3

"No, no, no. Damn it, girl, listen to me! Ease up on the reins."

There was an edge to his voice she'd not heard in a long while and Sansa unaccountably found herself on the verge of tears and resolutely blinked them away. He would _not_ see her cry over such a silly thing as steering a wagon.

"Give them here," Sandor ordered, offering the open palm of one huge hand.

"I will do no such thing. You brought me out here to learn to do this, so I'm going to learn!" A furtive sideways glance showed her a face both vexed and amused. It had been Sandor's idea to begin with, that she learn to navigate the wagon. He'd been teaching her many things over the last month and she was determined this would not become the skill she couldn't master.

He made a sound low in his throat and slumped against the bench. "You're pulling too hard on the reins, little bird. It's not like horseback. You need the bit to sit light in his mouth. And use the bloody whip, like I told you." Off her glare he groused, "You don't have to beat the beast, just remind him who's in charge. Pull up over there, by that stand of trees. Can you manage that much?"

"Why?"

"Because I have to piss. Would you rather I do it off the side of the wagon?" He reached for the tie on his breeches and twisted away from her. She clucked her tongue, gave a slight tug of the reins and, gods be good, the horse immediately veered to the right.

"I'll take that for a no," he chuckled.

"You are a rude and hateful man, Sandor Clegane."

"Might be. But you're learning, aren't you?" His face twisted in a hideous grin and Sansa couldn't help but smile back.

 

…

"It doesn't work on horses, then?"

They were sprawled on their backs under an ancient oak, Sansa's head pillowed on his stomach. Sandor's arms were folded under his head and a long blade of grass had taken up a spot in the corner of his mouth. The horse had been freed from the wagon and was tied up nearby, whickering softly and half-heartedly dozing.

"What's that?"

"Your… magic, your gift, whatever it is. It doesn't work on horses. You can't read them, like you do your wolves?"

"No." She held a lock of hair and was idly examining the ends as she twisted it around her fingers.

"Not the dogs either?"

She had tried it once and found it painfully chaotic. They were too eager, too many. She'd had to lay down after, her head throbbing, weak as a babe. "No, not as they are. They're too … whimsical."

He snorted. Then a short time later, "And me?"

She turned her head and found him peering down the line of his body at her. "You?"

"Yes, me. Can you do it with me? Have you tried?"

"It wouldn't be right." Off his look she told him, "You're a man, not an animal. It would be … a violation. You've the right to keep your feelings to yourself."

He laid his head back down and chewed a little while on the blade of grass. And then he said, "Now that you've sung your polite and proper song, tell me the truth. Have you tried? Would I even know if you had?"

"You haven't." Too late, she realized she'd given herself away and quickly tried to recover. "It's not deliberate, I swear to you." She felt the muscles of his stomach tighten beneath her cheek in the instant before he pushed up on his elbows to stare down at her. "But sometimes when we touch, when I touch you, sometimes I sense things."

"What things?" He pushed up even higher and scooted back to lean against the broad trunk of the oak. Sansa tried to shift with him but he gave her no leave to do it, pulling his knees to his chest and circling his arms around them. So she sat up instead and tucked her legs under her.

"Regret … sadness ... anger." Sandor's face was impassive as she spoke, but his eyes never wandered from hers and she was certain she glimpsed apprehension in them. She chose to go on anyway, because it was easier than it had been, before, to tell him the truth. "Pain. Guilt. Need." She dropped her eyes and finished softly, "Love, or something close enough to claim its name. All the things you won't let yourself voice."

"Maybe there's a reason for that." His tone was even enough, but its foundation was built of stone.

"I'm sure there is. But the feelings are there, all the same." She found herself regretting her impulsive decision to admit anything. Though she had suspected he might be displeased, and could not blame him for it, she had not anticipated the degree of indignation emanating from him, almost scalding in its intensity. He was possessed of a brittle sort of pride, and she knew she had somehow driven a sharp blade directly into its heart.

"What would you have me do, Sansa? Drop to my knees and beg your forgiveness for what I did? Should I speak some flowery words about how nothing in the world matters to me but you; proclaim my love and shout it to the heavens? I'll see forty years on my next name day and still not bloody certain what love is. Even if I was, it don't change a thing." She lifted her face at that and met his somber eyes. "You'll still leave. Maybe not today, but might be tomorrow. Or in a fortnight, or a month, a year. But you'll leave, just the same. Your wolves brought you here but I am not the reason for any of this, only a stop along the way. Not bloody important enough to be cause for your journey's end."

"How do you know? How can you say that?"

"Because they'll come back for you. I know it and so do you. You dream of them, don't you, your wolves? Every night when you close your eyes, you leave this place and run with them."

"How do-"

"Your sister did the same. Watched her through enough nights to see it, and she'd talk sometimes, when she wasn't trying to figure out ways to kill me. I may not be as smart as some, but I know enough to put the pieces together. The wolf is strong in you Starks. You can pretend it's not there all you like, but you can't deny it, not and be honest."

Sansa experienced a stunning moment of lucidity. "Is that why… have you been teaching me all these things because you're certain I'll leave?"

"I want you to be able to take care of yourself, better than you did before. The pack may hunt well enough to keep you fed, but they can't start a fire or cook the meat. They won't be able to steer a wagon or put an edge on a blade or dig you a proper hole to shit in."

She threw herself against him, unmindful of the way his knees dug into her chest and the scrape of the tree bark across her knuckles as she wrapped her arms around him. "If I can feel you, reach you like I can the wolves," she implored, "then there's a reason for that, too. I will not accept anything less. If what you believe will happen truly comes to pass, if I am called again and must leave here, come with me, Sandor."

He brought his legs down straight and pulled her into his lap, setting his chin on the crown of her head. "No," he said, his refutation muted and oddly flat. "I've seen what's out there, girl. I want no part of it. I won't become a butcher again, not even for you. Told you before, I've made my life here and this is where I'll stay."

"But you could make another life," she reasoned. "We could start over again, the both of us together."

His hand came up and stroked her hair. "Oh, my foolish little bird. You still believe the fairy tales, don't you? Even now."

Then she did cry. Because he spoke the truth, and because she _did_ still believe. And it was all right that she didn't struggle against them and allowed her tears to fall freely instead. She knew, above all, that she was safe with him. He held her and rocked her and kissed her hair. And after a while he tipped her face up and, chuckling, pulled his sleeve over his hand and gently wiped her nose clean. She blinked red-rimmed, swollen eyes and tried to smile, but he dipped his head and stopped her with a kiss. Then came another and another, and before long her grief had turned to need and his had, too.

Sandor removed his cloak and spread it out, easing her down and straddling her legs. He lazily began unfastening the clasps of her gown as he bent to kiss her. She stayed his hand and murmured, "Here, in the open?"

"Who's to see us - the birds, the gods? Let them look." He made quick work of releasing her from the gown and then sliding off the silky chemise and smallclothes she'd sewn. He took a few seconds to rid himself of weaponry, jerkin and tunic, and then knelt by her feet and pulled off her boots and stockings. She giggled as he pressed his lips to each knee and then sighed as he kissed his way up. Soon she was trembling under his mouth and not caring at all if someone passed by and happened to see them.

Sandor had proven a surprisingly generous and ardent lover. Sansa had not known much pleasure in her marriage beds, finding her husbands adequate to the cause of gaining themselves an heir, but the little attention they'd shown her had left her frustrated and hungry for more. She had soon learned to find her own release as she lay alone in her bedchambers or wide-awake next to a snoring husband. It was not at all like that with Sandor.

For one, he lacked inhibition and would not tolerate it in her. If he wanted something he simply asked for it, and expected no less in return. Furiously blushing like the maiden she had once been, she'd done as he'd asked one afternoon and shown him where to touch her, and how. He had been an eager student and had learned his lessons well. There was laughter, too, in their bed, and a joyful abandon she'd not thought possible before.

These discoveries should not have been as much of a revelation to her as they were. For even if she'd not been able to express in thoughts or words her growing sense of herself as a woman, she had known from the moment he'd stolen a kiss from her the night he left King's Landing that none would ever compare. She had spent the ensuing years searching out, in other men, what could only be found in Sandor.

She arched her back away from the stony ground, taut as a bow string, as he finished her off with his mouth and then reared up on his knees. His cock jutted up high and hard as he pulled open the front of his breeches and tugged them down just far enough. Sansa lay dazed and gasping for breath as he lowered himself over her and pushed into her in maddeningly slow increments. The muscles at her core pulsed tightly around him, an echo of the release she'd just found, and his guttural groan mingled with hers.

"You'll be the death of me," he rasped as he sheathed himself fully within her. She lifted her head and pulled his bottom lip into her mouth, nipping at it and tasting herself there. She gripped his biceps as he rested his weight on his forearms and thrust into her with shallow strokes, offering only teasing glimpses of the ferocity and strength she so desperately needed from him. Unwilling to be denied, Sansa wrapped her legs low on his hips and pulled him deeper.

"Then we'll both die a sweet one," she assured him.

Sandor's willful restraint did not last much longer after that. Soon he was moving in her hard and fast and she met each rolling thrust with one of her own. Her head was sliding off the cloak beneath her and onto the grass, each snap of his hips pushing them forward bit by bit. She winced as the sharp edge of a rock dug into her shoulder blade and didn't have to say a word. His gaze focused intently on her, Sandor instantly saw her discomfort and scooped her up against him, rolling over onto his back and carrying her along. She got her knees under her and sunk down heavy, reclaiming the portion of his cock she'd lost during the maneuver.

Sandor shook the sweat-soaked hair from his face and reached up to knead her breasts and circle her nipples with the calloused edges of his thumbs. She took up his rhythm, tight and fast, and felt the coiling begin again, low in her belly and spreading through her like fire, her toes and fingers tingling with it. And then his hands gripped her low on the hips and stilled her.

"Easy, Sansa. I'm in no hurry." He was breathing hard, nostrils flared, his face flushed with high color, the untouched side almost as ruddy as the burns. "Fuck me slow, now; make it last." His command was roughly given, his thumbs painful as they dug into the edges of her hipbones, but what she saw in his eyes belied all that. They were clear and warm, touched with a tender vulnerability she'd rarely seen in him. It was so naked a look that she found herself wanting to glance away, wishing to spare him any embarrassment at being caught so utterly defenseless. So she folded down onto him and pressed her brow to his as her eyes slipped shut. He eased his grip on her and began to guide her hips in a languid rising and falling; pulling her forward until he'd almost slipped out and then back again, until he was sheathed as far as she could take him. The sway created an excruciatingly sweet friction against the most sensitive part of her, down where they were joined, and she once again found herself chasing the fulfillment of her need.

Sansa lifted off him a little and her hands moved from his shoulders and grasped his broad chest, her fingers clawed and holding hard to him. Sandor had begun to groan beneath her and soon her throat was pushing forth noises to match - not at all lady-like, but she did not care. His hands left her hips and came up to cover hers and he pulled them away and raised them so their fingers could entwine. Then he stretched his arms out over his head and stretched her out above him, too, until every bit of skin that could meet, did.

Palm to palm, cheek to cheek, they moved as one. A brightness began to blossom within her, weightless threads of light and heat and stars, and she felt herself open like the outstretching of arms, beckoning the whole of everything that was not of her to come within and become a part of that light, a part of her. And all at once she felt him, touched him, just as effortlessly as she once touched her wolves. Not just an edge or a fleeting glance or the mere shadow of what he held so close in his heart, but everything. In a few brief moments she came to know the soul of him, his very essence. She was overwhelmed, awed by what she felt and unprepared, and she tried to push away. But he wouldn't let her. Sandor untangled his fingers from hers and wrapped his arms around her, bucking his hips up hard against her as he found his own noisy release. That was all it took to shove her off the cliff's edge she'd teetered on and she fell gracelessly into the light. And all the love she'd felt in him, all the hope and the pain and the rough honor, was its own light, and it merged with hers and became blinding.

It was too much, too much. She feared she might burst into flame and burn forever. So instead of letting it engulf her, Sansa gathered all the threads of light together, his love and hers, his hope and hers, his wounds and hers, until they swelled in her chest, demanding release. Guided by instinct alone she lifted her face from the hollow of his throat and, seeking his mouth, gave it all back to him in a kiss.

It went on only a few short moments before Sandor jerked hard beneath her and twisted his head, breaking away too soon for her liking. His eyes, when she lifted up to look, were wide with shock and dark as a starless night sky.

"You felt it, didn't you?" she gasped. "You felt it, too."

His eyes bored into hers, bottomless and searching. In answer, he cupped the back of her neck and urged her down to finish what she'd begun.

He was very quiet after, as she slid off him and they lay gasping and boneless upon his cloak. Her ear was pressed to his chest and she could hear the hammering of his heart. She wanted very badly to say something about what had just occurred. If it was as she thought, it was like nothing she had ever experienced … except with her pack. Not just the gift of reaching and touching, but having it reciprocated in kind. The implications stunned her and she couldn't imagine what Sandor must have been thinking.

"Do you want-"

He interrupted her before she could finish. "Leave it be, girl."

His tone offered no opportunity for argument so she held her tongue, lifting her head from his chest long enough to peer up at him. His eyes were closed, his features relaxed, and he pulled in a long breath through his nose as she watched. He brought one arm across her, then, and curled it heavy around her. She laid her cheek back down and tucked in closer, seeking his warmth as a mild breeze dried the sheen of sweat from their skin.

Not much later he stirred and reached down, raising his hips and pulling his breeches back up. He stood, looming tall and broad above her, and offered his hand. "Come on, little bird, it's time we get back. We've managed to piss away the whole day."

Silently she took his hand and let him pull her to her feet. He gathered her gown and undergarments and handed them over before he finished dressing himself. She found herself standing alone, her bare toes curled into the scrubby grass, as he hitched the horse to the wagon and waited for her to join him.

Not another word was ever spoken about that afternoon. And what had happened never happened again.


	4. Chapter 4

She was deep in the bowels of Winterfell, down in its crypts, where the chilly air smelled of mildew, dirt, and the ancient dead. Torches set into rings along the walls helped guide her way and pushed back the darkness with flickering tongues of light. There was no fear in her, not like there had been when she was a child. No harm would come to her, even surrounded by ghosts as she was, for she was home. She made her way slowly down the narrow corridor looking this way and that at the faces and forms of the Kings of Winter, the blood of her blood. They sat upon their granite thrones, rusted steel in their hands, direwolves at their feet, and returned her study with blinded eyes. She stopped for a moment between two pillars, before the sepulcher of one whose name she could not recall. She puzzled over it, her brow creased in concentration.

"King Rodick, son of Rickard," came a small voice at her side. It did not alarm her; neither did the small hand that slipped warm into hers. "He won Bear Island in a wrestling match with an ironborn, remember?"

"Yes, of course."

"And over here," the child tugged at her and she allowed herself to be led to a likeness on the opposite side. "That's Walton, the Moon King. And there," the child said, pulling her further down and pointing as he stopped, "that's Benjen the-"

"Sweet," they finished at the same time.

Sansa laughed, gazing down at the boy. He was no older than six or seven, a skinny thing with a mop of dark hair. He peered up at her, giving her a wide gap-toothed smile, and Sansa was struck by his angular features and by his eyes. Gray, they were, and solemn, so that his grin, though genuine, seemed not to fit the rest of his face. There was a moment of recognition, fuzzy at best, that lasted only long enough to confuse her - for what she saw in the boy harkened back to the memory of a man grown. The thought caused her smile to fade a little.

"How do you know these kings?" she asked.

"My father taught me, just as yours taught you."

"Who is your father?"

"Who is yours?"

"Why are you here?" she asked, trying a different approach.

"Why are _you_ here?" the boy parroted.

"Please, won't you tell me? There is so much I don't know and I have grown weary of it all. I do not understand why any of this is happening to me or what I am to do now."

"Might be this is where you'll find out."

Sansa was growing impatient with his evasiveness and befuddled by his familiarity. Why would this child have appeared to her, if not to serve some purpose? "Here in these crypts?" she retorted. "There is nothing down here but death and old bones, no one about but you and me."

"Are you sure?" the boy asked, peering up at her, his head cocked, eyes bright with amusement.

"I am not sure of anything. Won't you at least tell me your name?"

The boy let go of her hand and skipped a good bit ahead. Then he stopped and spun around to her. "I am called Eddard, if it please you. Come on, then, you're almost there."

Sansa hesitated, unsettled by the child's words, but gathered her courage and followed him deeper into the crypts, pulling up short only when he disappeared around a corner. She slowly approached the junction and peered into a corridor much darker than the one she stood in, lit only by a single torch some distance ahead. The boy was nowhere to be seen.

"Hello?" she called quietly. "Hello? Where are you?" Ignoring her rising sense of unease she made the turn and stepped lightly down the dirt path, her slippers sending up small puffs of dust in her wake. "Where did you go?" she asked. But there came no answer. It was as if the boy had never existed. She turned her head just as she reached the torch and caught sight of what lay within the chamber opposite. It stopped her in her tracks and she swallowed a stunned gasp.

It did not matter that the likeness was not complete, its features half-formed and blurry, as if incautious hands had smeared a mask of wet clay. It was the set of shoulders that gave it away, the rod-straight line of back against throne. No casual slouch in this Stark, no hint of an insolent lean of his weight upon a forearm, as some of the likenesses had been chiseled to portray. This man was earnestness and duty carved eternal, in stone as unyielding as his honor.

"Daddy," she whispered. And this time she _did_ startle when a hand slipped around hers. Much larger than the boy's had been, and rough against her palm. Determined not to look, too afraid to hope, Sansa squeezed her eyes shut. But she could not do the same with her ears, and his greeting settled in them, achingly familiar, profoundly beloved.

"Hello, my precious girl."

Blindly she turned, groped, and found herself enfolded in her father's arms. She was struck by how much time had passed since last she'd been held by him. Where once her cheek had rested in the middle of his chest, it now settled against his shoulder. But his scent was the same; it remained an alchemy of grass and horse and sweat, and a unique aroma she now recognized as being solely masculine. And suddenly she was sobbing.

"I'm sorry, Daddy, I'm so very sorry ... I tried to be a good girl, I did. But I never should have gone to Cersei, never should've trusted her ... and he gave me his word! He promised he would be merciful! It's because of me that this happened to you. It should have been me that died that day, not you. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry …"

She couldn't talk anymore, her throat too clogged with tears and grief, made thicker still by the guilt she had buried so deeply, had so diligently ignored over the years. It all came pouring out, until her knees threatened to buckle under her and it was only her father's arms that kept her upright.

"Hush, child," he murmured as her sobs began to trail off into sodden sniffles and hitches of breath. "You mustn't blame yourself. None of this was your fault. Lay that crime and many more at the feet of those responsible, for it is not your burden to bear."

"If not mine, then whose?" she asked.

"You'll have your answers soon enough, I promise. You must be strong now, Sansa," he said, moving her slightly away and tipping her chin up with a finger. "You must be strong and listen carefully to what I am about to tell you. Can you do that, love?"

She nodded her head, jerky, her eyes still tightly closed.

"Then look at me, child. Open your eyes and see."

She swallowed hard and did as her father bid. And there he stood, as strong and whole and solemnly fierce as she had ever seen him. Fresh tears blurred her vision and she blinked them away. His calm gray eyes gazed back at her, a hint of a smile softening the sharp lines of his face.

 _The boy_ , she thought. But then her father began talking and she had no mind for anything else.

"The Long Night has ended and the north lies in ruins," Eddard Stark told her. "There will be no succor from the southron Houses that yet survive. They are too busy fighting amongst themselves for whatever remains there. Westeros is in shambles and the Northmen without a cause. The kings surrounding us knew that there must always be a Stark in Winterfell and our home has been too long without."

"But Winterfell is destroyed, Father, nothing remains but broken stone and scorched ground."

"And yet here we stand," he responded, arms opened as though to embrace it all. "It is not granite that makes Winterfell what it is, nor timbers or mortar or hard-packed earth. It is what lies within the Starks, what flows in our veins. We are the children of the old gods and they will not forsake us. The blood of the wolf runs deep in you and must not be ignored. You carry within you the seed of our rebirth, the power to take back what has been lost. Your pack calls to you, daughter. It is time you listen to them once more and go where you must go."

She found herself twisting away, giving him her back as she wrapped her arms around herself, as if that could somehow shield her from the impact of his proclamation. _But you don't understand!_ she silently cried. _He will not come with me!_ She knew it would be folly to argue with her father, to try to make him understand what she would be leaving behind. It did not matter; it never had and never would. She had known that from the very instant she had first heard the call of her pack. Whether it was truly in her blood or she had been touched by some sort of old magic, the result was the same. The connection had become instinctual and, she knew, essential to her continued survival - and that of the north, if her father were to be believed.

Sansa could not afford to forget what had happened the last time she had failed to take Eddard Stark at his word, trusted him to do what was best. It did not matter at all that he didn't blame her. A part of her would always carry that bitter weight.

"When must I go?" she asked, her voice as small and fragile as she felt.

"You will know when it is time. Soon," he told her.

"And what am I to do then, Father? Our loyal lords bannermen and their vassals are scattered to the winds and I am but one person. How am I to find them all and bring them together to begin again?"

His hands came down on her shoulders, gentle as ever, and he turned her back towards him. "Sweet girl," he said, "you needs not seek them out. They will find _you_."

__

…

__

"And then I asked him about the boy who'd led me to him. He gave no answer, only smiled and held me one last time. And then … he was gone."

They sat across from each other at the table in the darkest hour of the night, a single lantern casting their long shadows against the timbered walls. Sandor had shaken her awake when her sobbing had pulled him from his own dreams and she had risen and urged he do the same. She was compelled to share with him what had occurred, though she could not say why. Perhaps it was nothing more than the hope he might interpret it differently, offer her a way to weave its significance so it was not so painfully obvious.

"What do you think it means?" she hesitantly asked.

He slid his hand from her grasp and scrubbed his bare arms. Using the heels of his hands he wiped the sleep from his eyes and laced his fingers under his chin. "It was a dream, Sansa. I once dreamt I fought beside Serwyn of the Mirror Shield and he bid me kneel afterward so he could proclaim me a knight for true." Sandor quietly snickered. "I told him to bugger off." Then he looked her straight on. "But I am not you and our dreams are not made from the same stuff."

Though they had never spoken of their unique and shared experience in the meadow the previous month, she had found him more receptive of her odd flashes of knowing since then. He was less apt to offer a surly look or willfully ignore those times when her gift showed itself most plainly. And she, in turn, felt more comfortable simply being who she was with him, in all her strange and many facets.

"He said that I would have answers soon, that I would know who had betrayed him and was responsible for his death and all that came after. Do you think that's possible after all this time?"

Sandor sat back and studied her intently. "Would knowing change anything that's happened?" he finally asked, echoing a question he'd first posed to her what felt like a life-time ago.

She gave the same answer as before. "No," she said and then added, "but I still want to know. I _need_ to know. For so long I have blamed myself for my family's misfortune. Father, my lady mother, Robb, Arya … even Bran and Rickon."

He lifted his chin and peered down his nose at her, a look she'd come to recognize as one he adopted when pondering whether he should give voice to whatever thought was in his head. She instinctively reached for him, to glean what it was he felt, but shied away at the last moment. For some unaccountable reason, she found she did not want to know. Even without touching him, she was suddenly overwhelmed by an awful sense of dread.

"Your father was a foolish man. Honorable … but a bloody fool. He placed his trust in those who'd done nothing to earn it, and it cost him his head." Sandor straightened from his slouch and leaned across the table. "It was Littlefinger betrayed your father. He swore to him the gold cloaks would have his back when he was called to bend the knee to Joff. Baelish lied; they were in Cersei's pocket all along."

She couldn't seem to draw a breath. It felt as though she'd been punched in the chest. When she was finally able to speak, her words were no more than a whisper. "How do you know this?"

"Think about it, girl. I was Joff's sworn shield. You think an ambush like that would've happened where it did without them telling me about it first?"

She dropped her eyes to the surface of the table, unwilling to meet his naked gaze. "How… how much did you know?"

"All I needed to - and more besides." He sighed heavily. "Go on, then, ask me. Ask me what it is you really want to know."

She pulled in a steadying breath and cast her eyes back to his. "Did you have a hand in the planning?"

"Aye. And I'll not be wanting your forgiveness for that, either. I was the Lannister's dog, loyal and true, and did what I was told. Offered a soldier's advice when I was asked. Don't mean they had to listen, but Cersei did more than not. Ned was to take the black to pay for his treason. That was the plan. But someone got Joff's ear the night before your father was taken to the Sept of Baelor and whispered a different one. Said just the right words to puff him up like a bloody peacock, convince him he'd look a right proper king, and one to be feared and respected, if he took your father's head instead."

"Varys?" Even as she spoke the name, she knew it wasn't so.

"No. The Spider agreed it best he be sent to the Wall. Both he and Cersei knew your father was more valuable alive than dead. No one wanted to risk bringing the wrath of the north down on our heads. No one … save one man. The one who stood to benefit the most from a war of kings. The same one who slipped into Joff's chambers as I stood watch outside. The doors of the Red Keep are thick, but this dog has keen ears. I heard enough."

She was shaking her head before Sandor could say anything else. "No, no, stop. No more." She didn't need to hear him name the man. She already knew. A rancid ball of sickness bloomed in her stomach and she was out of her chair in an instant, wrenching open the door of the cottage and falling to her knees in the yard, spitting up bile and gagging on truths as poisonous as any found in a maester's chambers. It went on until her retching ran dry and the knots in her stomach left her doubled over. Then she turned away from the mess she'd made, her forehead practically on her knees. As she raised her head and wiped her mouth on a sleeve, she caught sight of a cup at the edge of her vision and grabbed for it. She was aware of Sandor retreating to a spot behind her as she sipped at the cool water and ran a shaky hand across her brow.

"I thought him my savior, at first. Not the sort of man I imagined as my rescuer, but once Joff was murdered I knew I had no choice but to trust Ser Dontos. It was go that very minute … or stay and die. I learned soon enough that Petyr was no savior. But I remained with him in the Eyrie. I had to - I had no other choice. I did what I did to survive and I learnt his lessons well." Sansa wasn't altogether sure why she was saying these things out loud, or for whom: herself or Sandor. Perhaps it was simply another sort of sickness that needed purging. "He tried to make me into someone else and I played his game, but I never truly forgot who I was … who I am. I watched him scheme, stood by as he plotted and carried out murder, allowed him to join me to this man and that after he secured the annulment of my marriage to Lord Tyrion. And then when there was no one left, save me and him, when he'd made certain …" She flung the cup away and balled her fists as a sob tore up her throat and came strangled from her lips. "In the end I gave him what he wanted. Laid with him, spread my legs for him. And all the time … all the time it was he who stole from me what I held most dear." She twisted and looked over her shoulder to find Sandor. The moon's illumination showed him leaning against the wall of the cottage, one leg cocked with a foot resting flat against the timbers, his arms tightly folded across his chest. His head was bent, his features hidden by a curtain of hair. "Not even the deepest of the seven hells is punishment enough for Petyr Baelish."

There came a long silence and it was only after she'd turned away once more that he spoke. "I swore to myself when I left Quiet Isle I wouldn't ever again spill blood for pleasure - or even in anger, if it could be helped. To kill a man in defense of your own life or those you've sworn to protect is a righteous act. To do so only for the joy of it is a heady prospect, but the price is burdensome and foul. But for you … for you, little bird, I would hunt him down and bury my blade deep in his heart and rejoice in it."

Laughter bubbled up and out of her, as sudden and unpredictable as her retching had been. "Too late for that, my dearest love. I've already sent him to his death and for far lesser crimes than I now know him guilty of. Would that I could kill him again, a hundred times and more." And then Sandor was standing before her. She started at his bare feet and looked him all the way up, until her neck was craning with it. His eyes were nothing more than dark hollows set above narrow, chiseled cheekbones.

"You killed him?" There was a hint of incredulity and his tenor almost jovial - a clear invitation to tell him more.

"I did," she affirmed. "It was so easy. After the wolves called to me for the first time … after I discovered what I could do, it all became clear to me. I was a good wife and he denied me little. A ride down into the valley one afternoon, just the two of us. That was my gambit. A picnic on a warm spring day. I fed him fruit and cheese, warmed his mouth with kisses and wine. And when he lay back upon the bright green of the new grass, I called to them and they came. They fell upon him so quickly he hadn't even a chance to rise, and I took to my feet and watched as they …"

Her gaze followed him down as Sandor abruptly folded with a grunt and sat on his haunches, their knees touching. He grasped her tightly at the shoulders. "Look at me," he commanded. "Tell me true, did it feel good to see him die? When you saw the terror in his eyes, watched the light go out of them, did you hear the singing in your blood? Did you feel what it was to finally have power, when you'd been so powerless before?"

She could not see him clearly, his features half hidden in the dark, but she didn't need to. What she _could_ see of his terrible burned face, what she sensed in the meaning behind his words, was a revelation. And she knew him, then, as the boy he had been and found herself grieving for all they had both lost, and knew how dear the cost.

"Yes, she whispered. His hands slid up and he cupped her cheeks and leaned into her, until she could feel his breath upon her skin, until all she could see was his face.

"Now you know," he said.

"Yes," she repeated. "Now I know." She bent her head and rested it on his shoulder.

How long they stayed that way she could not say. But the sky above them was alight with the first of dawn's pale and streaky colors when he slowly stood, pulling her up with him. Then he bent, hooked an arm under her knees, and lifted her against his chest. He carried her into the cottage and straight to the bed where they soon fell asleep, tangled together and safe beneath their furs. When she woke again later that morning she was alone in the bed, and her wolves had come again.


	5. Chapter 5

It was the dogs that woke her, a cacophony of high-pitched yowling she knew as the sound of their excitement. She scrubbed her eyes, stretched, and blinked owlishly at the sunlight streaming through the open window. It was bright, focused, and she knew from its angle she'd slept away a goodly part of the morning. She was groggy from too much sleep, and the remnants of her dream and its aftermath poked at her painfully, like a finger to a fresh bruise.

"Sansa!"

She sat up straight at Sandor's raspy shout and kicked back the covers, her heart leaping into her throat. The dogs, feeding on the tenor of his voice, barked ever more frantically.

"Sansa," he called again, "come outside!"

She grabbed her dressing gown, belting it around her waist, and shoved the hair from her face as she hurried to the front door. Throwing it open the first thing she saw was Sandor. He stood off to her left in the middle of the yard, wearing nothing but a loose tunic and pair of rolled up breeches. He was bare-foot and holding a bucket in each hand. The dogs kept barking, loud and high, and for a blurry moment she wondered why he didn't just feed them and quiet them down, as he'd clearly been on his way to do when he'd yelled for her.

"What is it?" She had to raise her voice to be heard above the clamor.

His head whipping toward the kennels, Sandor hollered, "Shut up, you miserable whoresons!" The barking ceased immediately, save for one or two more yelps that cut through the warm air before quickly dying off. Then he twisted the other way, held her eye, and nodded his head toward the edge of the wood. She looked up and there, no more than a dozen yards away, stood her gray wolf.

He'd grown in the two months since she'd banished the pack, but she knew him right away. And shortly thereafter _felt_ him. The sensation was like a tremor through her bones, a hollow space suddenly filled, and she dropped inelegantly onto the step and held out her hand. "Sweetling," she breathed, "come to me."

She was aware of Sandor bending to set down the buckets and reaching for the dagger at his hip, but only had eyes for her wolf. Wary but determined, tail held low and ears pitched, he began a slow lope across the yard, his head pivoting as he watched the both of them.

"Sansa -"

"Sheath your blade," she murmured. "You are in no danger. He is one of mine."

"I know that. It's not him I'm bloody worried about."

At that, she glanced away from her wolf and back to Sandor. Tracking the direction of his gaze, she blinked the last of the drowsiness from her eyes, looking more closely, and saw what he meant. There, deeper inside the tree line, barely visible behind the undergrowth of the wood, stood dozens upon dozens of wolves.

"Oh," she whispered and felt half a hundred pairs of eyes come to rest on her. And then like the rush of water off a high cliff's edge, the collective call of the wolves cascaded over her, through her, and she went limp as a rag doll where she sat, rocked by its magnitude.

_Come with us! Run with us!_ they cried, their song sweeter and more compelling than any she had ever heard. It was as if the very gods had lifted their voices in a hymn meant for her ears alone. And woven through it all, quieter but no less persuasive, in perfect harmony, came another voice: _They await you, sister. They call you home._

Eyes tightly shut, her mind pulled from memory a face almost forgotten. It was that of a boy with tousled auburn hair and wearing his lady mother's eyes. _No_ , she thought, _it is not possible._ That boy was long in his grave, wasn't he? But she found herself asking anyway, silently calling out to him in question.

_Bran, is that you?_

As swiftly as it had come, her brother's face faded from her mind's eye and all went still within. She raised her head, shivering from the aftereffects of the vision and the pull of the calling. Forcing her eyes open, she watched as first one and then another and another of the wolves turned back the way they'd come, until all had disappeared into the deep green of the wood.

Several moments passed without a sound and then the soft whine of her lone wolf drew her eye. He sat on his haunches before Sandor, head tipped back, imploring eyes trained on him. Sandor was returning the scrutiny with practiced indifference, though his posture was rigid, his back straight as an arrow. As Sansa watched, the gray whimpered again and butted his nose against Sandor's empty hand. There was a moment's hesitation before he reached and tentatively scratched between the creature's ears. With a muffled, satisfied groan, the wolf dropped and curled at his feet. Sandor's eyes found hers and he swallowed hard, the apple at his throat bobbing.

"The fuck is going on?" he muttered.

The wolf lifted his muzzle to peer curiously up at the man towering over him and then lowered it back to rest on his forelegs. Sansa had a moment of absolute clarity and understood the way of it as surely as if it were a map laid out in front of her.

"It's all right," she told Sandor. "He is here for you. You've been chosen."

…

"I am not like you," he argued later that day. "I do not have your gift."

"It doesn't matter if you do or not. It is as I told you before: they found me in the Vale, they came to me. And they brought me to you. We are both of the pack now."

"I'm a dog, not a bloody wolf."

"We are not so different," she pointed out, pulling a bunch of carrots from the ground and shaking the dirt from them before laying them in a wicker basket. She looked him a question as he squatted close by, mercilessly yanking up weeds.

"Pull more. Another dozen or so," he instructed. Frowning, for she did not particularly like carrots, she did as he said and then crab-walked further down the row to where the summer squashes grew in their mounds of earth, their leaves and vines prickly against her hands as she reached for them.

"These too?"

"No, they'll go soft too quickly. Leave them." Sandor groaned as he stood, his knees popping loudly in the stillness of the late afternoon. He grimaced down at her and then looked to the edge of the garden where the gray lay observing them.

"What am I to do with him?" he asked.

"What you do best: take care of him, watch over him. He will do the same for you, if you'll allow. And treat him kindly."

"I don't mistreat my animals, you know that."

She gave him a faint smile. "I do." He seemed not to have noticed he'd spoken of the wolf as if it were already a part of his brood. The bond had been quick in forming and, though still in infancy, had proven tenacious. Even the hounds had settled, despite the fact that the gray trailed along beside their master the whole time he'd fed them, determined to remain there regardless of the muttered curses and half-hearted, side-legged kicks Sandor had doled out in his direction.

 _They know the gray is a part of him_ , she thought. _Already, they know this._ Sansa moved further down the row and began pulling small white radishes without bothering to ask. They would go well in a salad of greens tonight, alongside the pheasants Sandor's arrows had earlier plucked from the meadow.

"Seven hells."

He was standing in the middle of the garden, hands on his hips and gazing down and around, a look of discontent on his face. "I should have planted more potatoes. There would have been enough to send some with you if I had. I'm sorry."

She blinked, staring up at him in shock. He was distracted by his own thoughts and it was several seconds before he caught her look. "What? Why are you gaping at me like a bloody halfwit?"

The absurdity of it struck her hard, and then came the poignancy straight on its heels. She did not know whether to laugh or cry. "In all the time I have known you, I have never heard you speak those words," she told him. "And of all that you've done, Sandor, you choose not being able to see me off with potatoes as the thing you'll apologize for?"

He stared at her blankly and then his upper lip curled in a sneer. "That's not true."

"It is," she insisted. "Never once."

He gave her his stiff attention for a few seconds more and then glanced away. "Bugger this. I have to see to the wagon. Pick whatever you'd like, little bird, long as it don't go to waste." He turned on his heel and stalked toward the stable. She thought to call him back but didn't, instead settling on her heels, a hand lifting to cover her heart. But her protective gesture was for naught and the pang of sadness bit deeply.

There had been no discussion of the immediate future and what it held, but they both knew what the appearance of the wolves meant. Once the enormous pack had left and they'd gathered their wits, Sandor had headed to the kennels to complete his interrupted chore, Sansa trailing several paces behind, watching him and waiting for a conversation that never came. Once that was done, he'd disappeared into the cottage, reappeared with bow and quiver, and taken off for the meadow, the gray at his side. She'd been gathering her few possessions when he'd returned with their supper, and he'd bid her follow him outside.

"You'll need provisions for the road," he'd said. "Best take as much from the garden as you can." And that had been that. They both knew she was leaving and she supposed nothing they could say would dull the pain of their parting or make it any easier. Even the reappearance of the gray and what it implied - a tenuous connection to Sandor that might remain with her so long as the wolf lived – was small comfort compared to what she would be giving up.

Sansa had grown to love him beyond measure. The thought of leaving Sandor, of abandoning the life she had carved out with him, was infinitely painful and tugged at her heart, begging for reconsideration. But an even larger concern called to her, a sense of duty and longing both, a need to finish a journey that had begun the day the wolves had first appeared to her. Though she wanted more than anything to stay, she could not afford to be selfish in this matter, not so long as the words of House Stark and House Tully lived on in her, running like blood through her veins. And not so long as the song of her wolves echoed in her ears, with its irresistible siren call.

Sansa had learned years ago to muffle the wanting of those things she could not have, the stuff of her dreams. Yet as she sat in the dirt, muted sunlight warming her face, a small flame of resentment flickered to life. _Why can't I have it all? Haven't I sacrificed enough?_ And she questioned what satisfaction she could find in rebuilding her homeland if it meant an empty heart and a lonely bed at day's end. It didn't seem fair that the cost of honor and duty should be so high. But there was nothing to be done for it. Sighing deeply, she levered to her feet and made her way back to the cottage to start their supper.

…

"You'll want to head northeast. Keep the sun at your back. You'll come across the kingsroad soon enough. I expect you'll find your way from there."

She looked up from the tunic she was mending. Sandor was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the hearth, running the blade of his dagger slowly across a whetstone, head bent to his task. He hadn't bothered to look up as he spoke and his profile was a dark silhouette against the dancing flames of the fire. It was the most he'd said to her since she'd called him in to eat.

The gray had presented a problem then, wanting to follow him inside. But Sandor allowed no animals in the cottage and the wolf was no different to him than one of his dogs. Presented with a firmly shut door between himself and his master, the gray had taken to scratching at it and voicing his dissatisfaction with occasional high short yelps. She'd picked at her food, keenly aware of Sandor's growing anger, jerking in her seat as he'd abruptly shoved away his plate and made for the door. She wasn't sure what he planned to do and braced herself for any outcome. But all he'd done was open it just far enough to slip through, closing it behind him. She heard the rough tone of his voice but not his words. He'd come back in a few minutes later and settled across from her as taciturn as before. But there had been no more disturbance from outside and their meal was finished in nearly complete silence.

"Thank you," she told him now. "But I don't … I am not altogether certain where I'll be going from here."

This time he did glance her way, his brow wrinkled in a frown. "What's this you're chirping? Have I missed something? It's Winterfell you're making for." Studying her expression he added, "Isn't it?"

"I don't know. I suppose I'll end up there eventually. But I must go where the wolves lead me. It is not my choice." He stared at her, long and hard, and she felt the air around them shift in some elemental way, as if a swift and thundering storm had barreled across the sky and come to a halt above their heads.

"Of course it's your choice!" he suddenly bellowed. "It's always been your bloody choice! To stay … to leave."

"There's no need to raise your voice."

"I am not raising my voice!" Faster than she'd thought possible, he was off the floor and on his feet, the dagger buried deep in the wood of the mantle. She flinched as he rounded on her. "Why did the wolves lead you here?"

"I don't know."

"You're lying. Tell me the truth!" He reached the table and leaned across it, arms locked straight on either side of her, his hands flat and splayed wide. "Why did they bring you here?" His eyes sparked dark and terrible, and in them she saw the specter of the man she'd known in King's Landing.

"I don't know! Sandor, please." Though not entirely unexpected in light of the day's events, his outburst was still surprising in its ferocity. She found herself - not for the first time - more frightened for him than of him. Just then, from right outside the door, the gray gave a long, mournful howl. They both turned at the sound and it was enough to break the disquieting tension that had permeated the room, suffocating in its intensity, as if it meant to steal the very air from her lungs. His eyes flicked back to hers and he spun and went to pull the dagger free, yanking at it to work it loose, tiny splinters of wood falling unnoticed at his feet. His back was to her but she had no trouble hearing his harsh murmur.

"You should never have come here. I didn't ask for this, never wanted it. You should have stayed away."

"You don't mean that."

"I do!" He turned back to her, the blade held loosely in his fist. "You come barging uninvited into my home, into my life. You turn everything all sideways and crooked, you and your damnable wolves; spin my head 'round till I don't know up from down anymore." Sansa set her sewing aside and pushed back her chair, rising and coming around the table. She approached him as she would a wounded animal, cautiously, watchfully, all the time reaching out for him from within. Any residual trepidation she might have felt swiftly faded, replaced by the recognition of his pain, the source of his anger. Sandor watched her approach with defiant, glistening eyes. "What in seven hells am I to do, girl? Don't know how to find my way back to where I was. It has all been changed, every buggering scrap of it." She was close enough to touch him now and went to lay her hand on his arm, but he pulled away before she could.

"Don't."

She closed her hand in the space between them and gave voice to her greatest hope, regardless of the fact she knew it to be in vain. "It is not too late. You can still-"

"Enough," he growled. "Keep those words in your mouth, little bird, for both our sakes. Do not ask me to go and I'll not ask you to stay. Neither of us wants to hear the answer we'd get." She chanced it and reached again, curling her fingers around his free hand, and this time he didn't shy away. Instead his eyes slipped shut and, almost reflexively, his fingers closed around hers. "I knew this day would come. I thought … I thought myself prepared." His eyes came open and he peered down at her. And then he gave an almost imperceptible nod, as if to himself, and leaned to set the dagger on the mantle. Then he pulled loose of her grasp and cupped her shoulders. "Do you understand, now, why I'm not meant to have beautiful things?"

She shook her head, at a loss to even begin to comprehend his question, let alone the turbulent emotions she felt in him. In that moment, he was a storm made flesh.

"I break them, little bird." He went on, managing an eerie calm despite his turmoil. "Go now, while there's still time. Go, before I've broken you as well."

"I am not afraid of you. And I am not so fragile as you think." His hands fell away and she instinctively raised hers and palmed his ruined cheek. "Do you know there are stories of old that claim wolves will mate for life, and that neither time nor distance can break that bond? I am yours, now and always. Look within, Sandor, when I am gone from this place. Be still and listen." Her hand slid down to cover his heart. "You will yet hear my call, I promise you."

…

Later that night he reached for her, as he was wont to do of an evening, and pulled her back to lean against his chest. He wrapped her close, setting his cheek upon her hair. Sansa laid her comb down on the cabinet and turned in his arms. As his mouth settled softly against her neck, she slid her arms as far around him as they would go, her body molding to his. There remained a skittish tension between them, but it lasted only scant moments more. And in its place came the sense of comfort they'd begun to rely on, the peace they found in their intimacy. His hands started to skim lightly over her wherever they could reach - a whisper's touch and barely felt. She pushed even closer and held him tighter, wanting more, needing more. But he remained strangely distant, his caresses measured, the touch of his lips on her skin fleeting and almost chaste. And though she felt him harden against her belly, the fire that had always burned brightly between them was dampened and meager in its heat.

_Go, before I've broken you as well._

She knew, then, and pulled away from him, leaning back in his arms and peering up at him with stubborn intent. "I will not have this," she told him, "not this night and not from you. I cannot abide your gentle touch." She curved her hands around his neck and linked them in the warm space at the nape. "I am a Stark and not easily broken. If you would take me one last time, then do it as the man you are, not the one you think you should be."

Something untamed flickered behind his eyes, transitory and utterly compelling. And he pulled at her at the same time she raised up on her toes. Their mouths came together hard, clumsily and painful. Lower lip stinging, she hissed against his mouth but did not pull away, and moaned low in her throat as his tongue brushed against hers, warm and wet. They had each other by the neck at first, holding tightly so there was no escape, and then fell into each other as the kiss deepened, turning and twisting, scrambling to grasp wherever their hands found purchase. Sansa backed him into the table and he collided with it hard enough to knock over the wine left from their supper. The stink of sour red filled the air as the dregs flowed from the flagon and onto the floor. Panting, they broke away and Sansa tasted the coppery tang of blood on her tongue. His or hers, she could not say. _Both_ , she dazedly decided as she gazed up at him. _Just as it should be._ Craving more, she leaned up and licked away the crimson smear at the corner of his mouth.

She could not say exactly what happened then. But whatever remained rational within them fled in the face of the visceral urges that drove them now. Somehow they made it into the small sleeping room and almost to the bed, clothing pulled off or torn away as they went, leaving a trail of muted greens and browns and softest silks. She found herself first on her back atop the low chest at the end of the bed, as he dropped to his knees and wrenched her thighs wide. Without warning he thrust the full length of his cock into her, dipping his head to swallow her startled yelp. But the chest proved too low and too short and he soon had them on the floor. Dry rushes crackled under the weight of her knees as she straddled him, poking sharply into them both as she ground against him, riding him with mindless ferocity. There was no place mouths collided with skin that remained unmarked by the pressure of their teeth. His fingers dug deep into her hips and as he reared up beneath her she scrabbled at his back with sharp nails. He shoved her away, snarling, and took to his feet, yanking her up and tossing her onto the bed as if she weighed less than nothing. She bounced and landed on elbows and knees. And when she went to turn, Sandor was there behind her and held her at the edge, wrapping an arm around her waist and lifting her hips to meet his. Bracing a knee on the mattress, he drove into her without warning and her chin dropped to her forearms, her back curving in a deep bow as her body welcomed his fresh assault.

He had never taken her this way before, from behind; rutting as if they were the same as the animals she had witnessed mating in the stables and yards of Winterfell, the same as the pack she traveled with and was a part of. Even as his forceful thrusts pushed her toward the thin edge of pain, she found herself pushing back, matching him stroke for stroke, keening high in her throat. He grunted behind her, their hips slapping together wetly, and reached to fist a hand in her hair, tugging her up to sag against his chest. His teeth found her neck as he wrapped his arms around her, one low at her waist and the other across her breasts, pinning her to him as his hips stuttered and ground against hers. She was filled with him, surrounded by him, and still it was not enough. Still, she needed more. Cries turned to growls in her mouth and pushed past her lips, the sounds filling the cramped and humid room with words senseless and yearning.

Stars exploded behind her eyes as his fingers slid from her waist to probe between her legs, just above where they were joined. He released his hold then, and she folded over his arm and down onto the bed as he worked his fingers in small, hard circles against her, relentlessly driving into her the whole time. And soon the world collapsed upon itself, blocking out everything else, narrowing her focus until nothing existed but the pulsing at her core and the sparking of her nerves, every inch of her skin inflamed with it. She was pushed deeper into the mattress by his weight as he draped himself over her and burrowed his face between her neck and shoulder.

"Now you are truly mine," he rasped hotly in her ear. "You will _always_ be mine." He gave a short, shallow thrust of his hips and then another, and then sunk deep inside her as he spilled his seed. There were brief moments of awareness as he shifted and swiped away the hair plastered to her cheek, laying a single soft kiss there. And then she rolled into his waiting arms and surrendered to the welcoming darkness.

…

It was gentle, calloused fingers sweeping across her brow that wakened her. She forced open gummy eyes in the half-light of dawn to find a fully dressed Sandor perched on the edge of the bed. "Best be up, little bird. They're waiting for you."

It took long seconds for his words to filter through the miasma in her head. Longer still for her to realize she wasn't seeing things, that the gray was in fact in the room and right next to Sandor, panting softly, his bushy tail swishing to and fro as he observed her with bright, eager eyes. She sat up too quickly and groaned, forcing herself not to fall back onto the mattress as she discovered varying degrees of pain in places she hadn't known could hurt. Glancing coyly at Sandor, she caught the edge of a wry, secret smile.

"Be careful what you ask for," he said. "Though I'll admit you gave as good as you got: I've my own battle scars this morning." He pushed up from the bed, turning away from her. "I'll be outside when you're ready." He took his leave, his wolf trailing behind him.

She slowly crawled out of bed and padded to the corner of the room, where she emptied her bladder in the chamber pot behind the screen and then hobbled her way to the basin of water waiting on the bureau. Naked as her name day, goose bumps raised up hard on her skin, she squinted out the window and looked upon the morning.

It was a magical sight. A dense, heavy fog lay over the land and she could barely see past the side yard. The trees of the wood loomed ghostly and tall just at the edge of her vision and she could scarcely make out the sharp lines of the shed. Everything was draped in dew and the air wet and still. It was eerily quiet; whatever sounds there were to be heard muffled by the vaporous mist that hung in the air. As she watched, a whippoorwill landed on the hitching post, its muted colors blending so perfectly with the battered old wood she might not have seen it otherwise. It chirped high and long and then shot from the post and into the trees. Sansa sketched a muted smile and turned from the window and to her simple bath.

She took her time, cataloguing as best she could the marks Sandor had tattooed upon her skin. She lifted her looking glass and fingered the tiny impressions of his teeth at her shoulder, neck, and collarbone; the splotches of blood raised in vivid purplish-red bruises where he'd suckled at the most tender parts of her: the soft curve of a breast, the inner fold of her arm, the swell of her stomach. Glancing down as she washed, she noticed a large oval imprint staining the skin on the edge of her hipbone. She poked it at and then awkwardly twisted, raising her arm and trying to look far enough around to know for certain. It was her fingers exploring there that solidified her suspicions. Even unable to see them, she was certain there were four corresponding bruises near the small of her back and along her spine, marking where his hand had gripped her so tightly. A fresh wave of arousal surged through her and she tamped it down, sighing and finishing her bath. She was soon dressed in the plainest of her gowns, cloak draped over her shoulders and pinned with a brooch. She stood in the center of the room and slowly turned, giving it a last look to make sure she hadn't forgotten any of her things. The silver brush, comb, and mirror were the last items placed in her sack and she paused for a moment before digging through it and pulling out a hair ribbon she'd made from the length of lilac silk Sandor had given her. Threading it through her fingers, she placed a kiss at the middle and tied it to the bedpost on the side where he slept. Blinking back tears, Sansa gathered her things and left the cottage behind.

He and the gray were waiting for her by the wagon, the tan palfrey hitched to it. The horse's ears were twitching impatiently and he was throwing wide-eyed, mistrustful looks at the wolf. Sandor took the satchel from her and tossed it in the back.

"If you can, try to keep the pack a good distance away until the old boy grows used to them. He tolerates the dogs - your wolves shouldn't be much different." He looked toward the wood as he absently stroked the horse's flank. "They're out there, not far past the tree line."

A thought suddenly occurred to her. "You'll have no horse or wagon now."

"I'll make do. There's more where they came from." He turned to her. "You should have everything you'll need to get you by for a fair time. There's a bag on the bench: bread and cheese to break your fast. And plenty of water in the back too. If you can't find any fresh, boil it first before you drink it, else you'll be bloody squatting in ditches from here until you get to … wherever it is you're going." She nodded her understanding. "There's a dagger there too, under the bench. Keep it close at hand."

"The wolves," she began.

"Do it anyway. You don't know what's like to happen out there." He gave her a long look, a weary sadness worn faintly on his features. And then he opened his arms. "Come here, then."

They held one another as the horse whickered and the gray whined, nudging against them. And then from the wood came the call of her wolves, faintly at first, before building to a more urgent cry, their howls echoing strangely in the mist. Sandor pulled back and cupped her face, leaning in to kiss her. Resting his forehead against hers, he murmured, "If you should ever pass this way again …"

Stretching up, Sansa placed kisses on his eyelids and then his mouth, lingering there, determined to remember the taste of him. Silently they broke apart and he handed her up into the wagon. He gave her the reins and stepped back.

"Be well, little bird."

"And you, Sandor."

She took a deep breath and clucked her tongue at the palfrey. He started them on their way, the wagon wheels creaking in noisy protest. She steered them toward the trail that wound around the edge of the wood and then twisted on the bench to look back. Sandor remained where she had left him, the gray at his side, his hand resting between the wolf's ears. And though tears blurred her vision and her neck ached at the angle, she did not look away until he had vanished into the fog.


	6. Chapter 6

"Lady Sansa … is something amiss? My lady?"

She forced her eyes from the walkway beyond the open doors and back to the bearded, grizzled faces gathered around her. Sansa wasn't certain which of the men had spoken. "I beg pardon, my lords. I cannot seem to pay proper attention just now. If we could finish this discussion later...?"

Almost as one, the small group uncomfortably murmured their assent and turned, bowing stiffly and filing out the door of the solar. All but her great-uncle, that is. Brynden Tully brought up the rear and paused as the room emptied. "You look pale, child. Perhaps you should rest this afternoon."

"Perhaps I will, Uncle. Thank you. You'll let me know if we receive any word?"

"Of course." He shut the door behind him as Sansa leaned her head against the chair back, her eyes slipping shut. She heard Mireille puttering around behind her and shortly after felt the woman's hand on her shoulder.

"Pay 'em no mind, love, they don't understand the way of it. Men ain't happy 'less they can fix a thing, and if they can't it makes them downright surly. Do you want for some tea, mayhaps a small bit o' something to nibble on?"

"I am not sure what I want," Sansa whispered, knowing it for a lie even as she said it. She started to rise and her companion - handmaid was too proper a title for the earthly clanswoman - hooked an arm under hers and helped her from the high-backed chair. "Perhaps I'll take some fresh air." She gently eased her arm from Mireille's. "I am not so fragile that I need help getting to the wallwalk. I think I'll have that cup of tea after all, if you don't mind the trip to the kitchens."

It wasn't really tea she longed for, but a moment or two to herself without someone - no matter how well-intentioned - flitting around her and trying to make right what could never be. Sansa heard the door close behind her as she stepped out onto the walkway and to the low parapet enclosing it. If it was truly fresh air she sought, she would not find it here, not even in this tower far above the courtyard. The small holdfast and its immediate surroundings were made redolent with the constant smoke of cooking fires, with the stench of illness and unwashed bodies, of hastily dug latrines and the detritus common to such camps. The Blackfish had likened it to the aftermath of a battle, and she supposed that was not far from the truth.

She looked out upon the bedraggled encampment half-filling the small courtyard and spilling out the open gates onto the valley floor. It was easy to become inured to it, seeing it day after day, and risk forgetting about the lives being carried out amongst the tents and lean-tos and the hastily built shanties, and so she narrowed her focus and studied for a time a woman squatting over a wash pail, scrubbing at thin garments. And then she watched a group of young boys tearing through the camp, weaving around the obstacles before them, screeching with delight as an equally enthusiastic threesome of hounds stayed hard on their heels. Her smile grew wan as she observed an older man lurch from his tent and glare up at the sky, a crudely carved crutch supporting his weight on the side where only half of a leg remained, mud brown breeches pinned up above his missing knee. They were hers now, each and every one of them; her army of smallfolk and nobles and wildlings. All of whom had willingly followed her, or had found her once she'd deemed the Hornwood castle adequate to their current needs, and acceptable enough to the wolves to stay a while. And all, man, woman and child, had pledged allegiance to Ned Stark's daughter and her formidable pack.

Less than a moon's turn from Sandor's home had found her already amassing a following in number to match her impressively large pack. As they zig-zagged across the vastness of the North, every day seeming to bring a change in their direction, she discovered the remnants of villages, and of settlements too small and too new to even have names, came upon battered down keeps and solitary crofter's cottages. And in each place, she had encountered the survivors. They kept their distance to start, spooked by the wolves and the way they circled the wagon, vigilant yet docile. And they would shout questions at her - once they were assured they were in no danger of having their throats torn out or their children carried off. Soon she stopped waiting for the inquiries and began announcing herself instead.

"I am Sansa Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, and his only surviving heir," she told them. "Come with me if you would see the North rise again."

There were those who would turn away at her words, muttering and cursing under their breath, full of disdain. But more than not remained, and listened. And of those, a few and then a few more gave pledge, gathered what few belongings they had and followed. Truth be told, Sansa had no adequate answers for them about what lie ahead. She had no way of knowing what each day would bring or where her pack might lead them next. But it didn't seem to matter overmuch to those who chose to travel with her, and so she chalked it up to grace and put her faith in the burgeoning conviction that when she required less tenuous answers, they would be provided. And they had been: both large and small, of grave consequence and of little.

She was settling into the most forgiving of the chairs in the solar when the knock came at her door. Rather than Mireille, it was the Blackfish who pushed it open, bearing a tray with tea pot and cups, and a small dish of shortbread dusted with cinnamon and sugar.

"It's good to see you've taken my advice to heart and are resting," he said, setting the tray on a side table. His tone was wry and he flashed her a quick smile, softening the rebuke as he took the seat across from her. "Your father was the same way. He would welcome advice, but was not always so eager to put it to use. Stubborn, he was, sometimes to a fault. But he meant well. He was a good man." He leaned forward and covered Sansa's hand with his own. "How are you, truly?"

She looked up and into eyes she suspected had once been as blue as her own, but had paled with age and the toll of wars fought and survived, one after the other. How he had ended up in the North was a story she'd yet to ask, and he hadn't offered. He had simply ridden into the crowded camp one morning and announced himself to her as she'd chopped turnips for a watery soup, out there in a field in the middle of nowhere. It had not taken Sansa long to ascertain he was who he claimed to be, and she had accepted her uncle's fealty without hesitation. Riverrun was gone, as were so many of the great castles and cities in Westeros, casualties of the years-long winter and the war between the Others and the dragons of the Targaryen queen. The Others had brought down the Wall, and with it their murderous cold, and soon after the dragons had come to destroy them. Ice and fire had lain waste to the entire country, save Dorne and a small part of the Eyrie, and no place worse than in the North.

"I am as well as I can be," Sansa told him. "But surely there are greater concerns just now than those of my wellbeing." It was a deflection and not a very good one at that - as proven by the Blackfish's response.

"The young maester - Ferryn, is it? – sought me out this morning." Her uncle waved away the offer of tea and sat back, grunting as he crossed one reluctant leg over the other. "He says if you still intend to make for Winterfell it must be soon, or not at all. You haven't much time left, Sansa, and the journey more dangerous for you with each day that passes." His eyes flicked over her in a circumspect study. She said nothing, waiting for his gaze to reconnect with hers, giving him time to utter the words that would match what she knew was uppermost in his mind.

She had grown used to the furtive glances cast her way, the snatches of whispered conversations that seemed to follow her through each day, as she wandered like a ghost within the rooms of the castle. They had grown in number and frequency over the past few months and she supposed it was only to be expected. But no one, not while she'd been on the journey here, not even after they had taken the castle as temporary respite, had ventured to look her straight in the eye and simply ask. Nor, it seemed, would her uncle, now.

Did they think her mind addled and that she was somehow unaware of her condition? Surely not. Were they afraid of the answer she might give, not knowing the circumstances that'd led to it? Perhaps that was what it was. Or was it that they saw something in her face, something behind her eyes that bespoke her frailty, and they simply wished to not cause more suffering?

"There is still time," she told her uncle. "And I will not leave until I know for certain that help from the Vale is coming. The fields are almost picked clean, the forests nearly empty of game. My wolves must venture further and further each time they hunt. I will not abandon these people to starve. I cannot."

"The supply train _will_ arrive, my lady, it is only a matter of hours now. Word has just reached us from White Harbor that they passed there nearly a week ago. I've already sent scouts to meet them."

"Then I shall await their arrival."

He scolded her. "That was not the plan."

"Tell me, uncle," she gently retorted, "is it not wise, when one is making strategic decisions, to always factor in the possibility that plans may need to be changed, depending upon the circumstances one is faced with?"

"Be that as it may, your plan was a sound one. It made good sense to split our forces and send the most robust, the craftsmen and laborers, to Winterfell to make it habitable. All reports confirm that the work is progressing well ahead of schedule. There is no need for you to stay on here. It is you who have stressed to me time and again that there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Why do you hesitate now, Sansa, when time is running out?"

She had no fit answer for him, only a feeling that was like a throbbing in her veins, achy and tender, the sort that came with a deep bruise. And so she found herself studying the threadbare carpet at her feet instead, her head filled with the notion that she was like to come apart at the seams soon. The Blackfish left shortly after, with matters remaining unresolved. Sansa folded her hands neatly on her stomach and remained where she was, her only concession to movement coming as she reached to swipe away the occasional rebellious tear.

**...**

When darkness fell, after she had supped alone in her solar, Sansa found herself drawn back to the tower's wallwalk. It was night fires that burned in the courtyard now, and in the valley beyond, and on torches set in rings around the perimeter of the castle wall. Trails of smoke drifted upward on the breeze, translucent, ghostly fingers struggling to reach the vast bowl of ebony sky above her head, dying away before they could grasp the stars. Sansa turned until she spotted the moon, no more than a thin crescent hanging whitely against its velvet backdrop. She let out a sound at the sight of it, breathy and low, more a sigh than true laughter.

It had been under a moon just like this when one of the larger answers had come to her, unforeseen and enormous in its implications. She had been lying on a pallet in the back of her wagon, the encampment surrounding her much smaller than what it had grown to be, in the end. The air was filled with the sounds of crickets and men snoring, fires crackling and the occasional half-heard snippet of quiet conversation. She had been thinking of Sandor, as she so often did, and missing him terribly.

Sansa found it was not just the large parts of their life that she recalled with such keen emotion, but the little ones as well. Not simply falling asleep in his arms, but lying in the bed come morning and watching him moving stealthy around the small room as he dressed, trying hard not to wake her. And then exchanging quick and easy grins as he discovered she wasn't asleep at all. It wasn't just sharing afternoons in the cottage to escape the worst of the day's heat and working at small, mundane tasks. It was her marvel at watching his large fingers so delicately repairing the nets he used to trap small game, and blushing as it called to mind the magic those same fingers worked on her. She found she even missed the brooding silences he would sometimes fall into, and the hard, appraising looks she found cast her way.

As she lay there with those thoughts tangling in her mind, she wondered how long it had been since she'd left him, and how far she still might have to go. She remembered that her first night at his cottage had shown a crescent moon much like the one she was looking at. And she recalled the dull ache in her belly and the throbbing pain of her back as she'd warily approached the timbered bungalow, her wolves gathered not far behind. Her moonblood had come upon her three days earlier and she'd wished more than anything for a real mattress beneath her and a strong cup of yarrow tea.

Her moonblood.

She sat up so suddenly that she spooked her wolves and they came to their feet growling low in their throats, twisting madly to locate the source of her alarm. She quickly shushed them and stared unseeingly into the night, frantically trying to recall when last she'd bled, only knowing it had been too long. She thought back on the afternoon she and Sandor had spent in the meadow making love, and the fleeting moment of bonding that had gone far deeper than the mere joining of their bodies; a startling and unique connection that had never happened since. And then as clearly as if whispered in her ear, her father's words came back to her.

_You carry within you the seed of our rebirth …_

Sansa had clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle a sudden outburst of inexplicable laughter. And then bit at her palm as the mirth shifted to fresh anguish. _Oh, my love, you were wrong! You were so much more than just a stop along the way, so much more important than we knew._ _We've created a child, you and I, an extraordinary child._ But Sandor was not there to know it. And it was that realization which caused her to bury her face in her hands and weep, raging silently at the cruelty of gods who would give such large blessings with one hand, and yet take away equally with the other.

Since that night she had reached for him a hundred times and more, trying to reestablish what had been a tenuous connection to begin with. And though she could sense the wolf she'd left behind, muted and at a great distance, of Sandor there was nothing. As the months had flown by and the life within her quickened, she'd desperately prayed to those same gods, old and new, that Sandor should somehow know and come to her. But he never had. And now, with only a few short weeks to go, she had grudgingly accepted that he likely never would. Her uncle was right: there was no sensible reason to stay where she was. She hadn't the least idea what her future held, she only knew that the babe she carried must be born in Winterfell. Returning to her chambers and calling Mireille to help her prepare for bed, she made up her mind that she would leave as soon as circumstances allowed. It was time to go home.

  
**…**   


The following afternoon heralded the arrival of the supply train. From her perch on the tower wallwalk, Sansa watched the long line of wagons slowly wind their way through the valley and toward the castle, her heart lightened by the sight of them. Her people would eat well today, and for many days to come. She peered down into the courtyard and watched as her own wagons were loaded with provisions for the trip to Winterfell. The yard was abuzz with activity, smallfolk and nobles alike boisterous and carefree, exchanging playful japes and toothsome grins as they awaited the gifts from the Vale. Some of her pack were weaving between the groups, tails held high, caught up in the excitement.

Sansa's hands flew to her distended belly as the child kicked. She had spent most of the previous night tossing and turning and the babe was in no small way responsible: it was the child's restlessness that'd kept her awake. It had always been active - a good sign, Maester Ferryn had said - but never so much as now. Sansa hoped this didn't signal a premature onset of her labor. Now that she had given up hope of a reunion with Sandor and made up her mind to move on to Winterfell, she was even more convinced the birth must happen there. "Just a bit longer, little one" she murmured, rubbing small circles over a spot where she swore she could feel the shape of a tiny foot. She received another kick in response, and this one strong enough to make her wince.

Just as she had with Sandor, she'd reached for the life within her many and more times, wondering if such a connection was even possible. Despite her doubts, she'd had to try - the child was a part of her and she yearned to know it in a way her other senses could not provide. But as with its father, there had been nothing in response- a silence rather than an answering call.

Sansa looked toward the gates as the first of the outriders rode into the courtyard, their horses lathered from their exertions. Soon enough some of the mounts turned skittish, unnerved by the presence of her wolves roaming freely amongst them. She watched as a few of her guard shooed the members of her pack toward a corner of the bailey and under a low hanging eave. And then came more riders, along with several wagons loaded with the foodstuffs that would be carried down into the cool pantries underground. One of the wagon's drivers had turned in his seat and was tossing apples at the children from a deep basket in the back. He carelessly lobbed one straight over the head of a small girl, but as she turned to follow its trajectory, a wolf leapt nimbly into the air and snapped up the apple in its jaws. Sansa's heart lay suddenly in her throat. For it was the gray who'd caught it, the very one she'd left with Sandor so many moons past.

And the world stopped.

No longer could she hear the cacophony from the courtyard below. There was only the rush of the pulse pounding in her ears. Her heart fluttered in her chest, fast as the wings of a hummingbird. She grasped the edge of the parapet, nails scraping soundlessly against the rough stone, and came up on her toes to lean as far as she could, eyes darting across the whole of the bailey, the child ceaselessly twisting and kicking within her.

There!

At the far end of the courtyard, opposite where her wolves had been rounded up, a man in a hooded cloak was dismounting an ivory courser. Once on his feet, she could clearly see that he towered over the other men. He stood with his back to her and she took in the breadth of his shoulders and followed the straight line of his back all the way down to the booted feet planted widely apart, a stance as familiar to her as her own reflection. "Turn," she ordered under her breath.

It was then that a strong gust of wind kicked up and circled around the yard, ruffling the tattered fabric awnings at the windows and snatching caps from the heads of several of the men. It caught the left edge of the rider's cloak and lifted it away, allowing her a brief glimpse of the longsword at his hip. And there, tied around the grip of the blade, was a ribbon of lilac silk.

Sansa pulled a breath into empty lungs and whispered, "He has come, my child. Your father has come." She nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt a hand land on her shoulder. She spun and found herself staring into Mireille's wide, startled eyes.

"M'lady, are you all right?"

Sansa twisted back around, fingers digging deeply into the woman's arm to drag her to her side. She pointed with her free hand. "There! Do you see him? The man in the gray cloak, the one with his hood pulled up. Do you see him?" She cut her eyes to Mireille long enough to catch her nod.

"Aye, I think so. The big one? I see 'im. What-"

"Have him brought to me."

"M'lady?"

"There is no time to explain. Have the guard bring him to the hall. Go, quickly, before he is lost in the crowd!" She snatched the woman back just as she was turning to leave. "He is not to be harmed, do you understand? Now go!"

She slowly paced her chamber after Mireille left, taking deep breaths and trying to calm her racing heart. She must take care, she knew, for she was made clumsy by the burgeoning life within her, and there were so many stairs to descend.

The long walk down was accomplished as if in a dream. One hand was fisted in the folds of her gown, lifting it high enough so she wouldn't trip on the hem. The other hand skimmed along the wall to her right, her palm encountering bumps and crevices in the stone, her fingertips brushing against the abrasiveness of the grout holding them solid. She kept her eyes trained on her slippered feet, and found herself whispering prayers as she went. The babe had gone oddly still, as though understanding the need for some small measure of calm. Her stomach was in knots and her mouth cottony. Her heart stayed lodged in her throat, a heady mixture of anxiousness and joy trapping it there, and she swallowed hard against it.

Sansa entered the hall through the lord's door at the back just as the front doors were opening, and she stepped up onto the dais where once had sat the dining table of Lady Hornwood. Most of the platform had been given over to piles of useable items scavenged from the wreckage of the castle, there waiting to be repaired or disassembled to create something else. A large group composed of guardsmen and smallfolk burst into the hall, accompanied by harsh shouts in a dozen different voices. But there was only one she heard, and it came several seconds before she caught sight of the man it belonged to.

"Get your buggering hands off me! I've done nothing wrong! What's happened to my wolf? You, with the pimply face, you think you're a man because you've a sword strapped to your side? Let me go and we'll see if you've any hair on those balls of yours. Bloody whoresons!"

The first through the door parted to let the smaller group move closer and then he was before her, twisting against the men holding him: two at each arm and another two behind him. He was still snarling curses from beneath the hood of his cloak when Sansa spoke.

"Let him go." It was quietly said but his head snapped up at the sound. He ceased his struggles and seemed to sag against the guardsmen for the briefest moment. Sansa could see little more than his eyes within the hood, and they were narrowed and dark with anger. But they locked onto hers as he stood straight, yanking one arm free of its restraints.

"You heard the lady," he growled. "You'll be taking your hands off me now, if you mean to keep them much longer."

Tristopher, who at ten and five was the youngest of her guard, glanced up at her and then back, his brow furrowed in confusion. "M'lady?"

"Let him go," she repeated.

She was aware of the men stepping away from him, watching with trepidation, their hands hovering above their swords. But she could only see him. She stood as tall as she could and let herself be looked at, watched his eyes settle on her swollen belly. When they again met hers, their gray depths spoke of something she was hard-pressed to name at first, for she had seen it in him so rarely. But then she knew it for what it was: pride. And her heart soared.

"Are these the sort you've taken as your guards, then?" He asked the question as boldly as if they were alone. "Young boys and old men? I've scraped shit off my boots more capable than this lot."

That brought an outburst from the men surrounding him. Sansa waited until the volley of colorful insults began to die down. "If you would speak ill of my loyal guards, I would ask that you do it as an honorable man should. Remove your hood, ser, for I would look upon your face."

Her words were in many ways a challenge - and she could see that he took them as such. Scant seconds later he reached and pushed back the hood and she felt the whole of her lift with her sudden intake of breath. The hall echoed with proclamations both whispered and not, as the men got their first good look at Sandor Clegane.

" _It's the Hound!"_ she heard. And, _"It can't be - he's long dead."_ And, _"The Butcher of Saltpans, that's who he is."_ _"What's he doing here?" "Served the fucking Lannisters, he did!"_ _"What does he want?"_ It didn't matter what any of them said. He was only Sandor, the man she loved and the father of her child - the one chosen by the gods and bestowed upon her in order to ensure the continuation of the Stark bloodline.

He stood before her now, road-filthy, unshaven, entirely unkempt, with mud splattered up to his knees and his long, dark hair twisted in an unruly knot at the back of his head. The scars on his face stood out plain and fearsome, even in the dim hall. He would never be any girl's dream of a knight from the songs and stories, magically brought to life. But Sansa was a woman now, and to her he was the most beautiful man she'd ever seen.

"I would remind you," she gently rebuked, "that these men you insult are the same who restrained you and brought you here before me. Perhaps you are too quick to vilify them."

"You think they wouldn't be dead, every man of them, if I was of a mind to have it so?" This time when the ruckus took up again, he simply directed hard and level eyes at the men near him. Then he shifted that same look to her. "Whose bloody brilliant idea was it to keep the gates wide open and unguarded? It makes no matter you're taking in provisions. Each of those wagons needs be checked. You've got wildlings and peasants traipsing through the yard like they own the buggering place. And why are your wolves not with you? Where are they - where is _my_ wolf?"

Sansa glanced around the room, waiting for some kind of answer. She noticed the Blackfish had entered the hall and was leaning against one of the open doors, arms folded loosely across his chest. Their eyes held until one of the men spoke up. "M'lady, they're being kept out of the way, the wolves are, them that's inside the gates. This one's," he gestured at Sandor and received a black look in return, "it's with the others. Went right to 'em, just like that. Saw it myself."

"Thank you, Cullen. As to rest," she said, addressing Sandor, "the gates are kept open on my orders. I will not turn away anyone who chooses to join us. And these good folk are free to come and go as they like."

"I thought you'd learned better," he spat back, and Sansa quickly gathered this was no longer an easy repartee between them, if ever it had been. It was no jape on his part: Sandor was clearly furious. "I've been riding through this gods-forsaken land for months now, following your trail. You think I haven't heard talk from those who declined your generous offer, listened as they drank their courage from cups of goat piss? There's men out there who'd slit your throat, little bird, just so they could say they did. And you've been kind enough to leave the doors open for them."

It wasn't that she saw the folly of her ways, for she believed her decisions had been sound, and necessary. It wasn't even that she did not want to argue with him, here in front of her men. In the end, it was his term of endearment that decided her.

"Leave us," she abruptly ordered. There followed a moment of confusion and disbelief, broken when the Blackfish spoke from the back of the hall.

"Come along, lads, we've work to see to. Do as the lady says." He caught her eye and then quite deliberately cast a look toward Sandor. Giving her a knowing tilt of his head, he ushered the men out and closed the doors behind him.

Sansa found herself lacking anything to say, now that they were alone. Silence settled into the hall, the bustle outside scarcely heard through the thick stone walls. Sandor reached up and opened the clasp of his cloak, shrugging it off and tossing it onto a table next to him. Turning back, he studied her for a long while, his gaze lingering on the full swell of her stomach.

"Did you know," he asked, "when you left?"

"No."

A second question hung unspoken between them and she was aware it would stay that way. He knew as well as she did that it wouldn't have made a difference even if she had known. She would have answered the calling anyway – she'd had no choice. A hundred things she wanted to say to him sprung to mind as the seconds ticked by. But none of them seemed the proper ones. They were either too rough or too flowery, or simply not weighty enough to serve their purpose. It wasn't until his gaze dropped and he looked aside, as though in defeat, that the words came of their own volition. They were choked as they left her mouth. "I've missed you so."

Glancing down at the steps leading off the dais, Sansa gathered her skirts to go to him. But before she could even move he was there, lifting her and setting her on the lowest step, burying his face in the curve of her neck. She heard a fragment of a whimper leave him as he carefully wrapped her in his arms. She smoothed her hands down his back and turned to kiss him wherever she could reach. As he lifted his head, Sansa cupped his face and brought it to hers, peppering more kisses there, until his hands mirrored hers and stilled her, capturing her mouth under his and kissing her long and hard and deep.

She was dizzy from the taste of him when he leaned away and gazed down his nose at her. She tipped her forehead, resting it in the hollow of his throat. "I feared I might never see you again, that you would never know. I called to you, reached for you, countless times and more. But I couldn't feel you and I thought…" She raised her head and pressed her mouth to the pulse in his throat and he pulled her as close as he could. Nestled between them, their child shifted languidly within her womb. "I was wrong. You heard - you really did."

"Aye, I did," he rasped as he stepped a little away. "But it was not your calling I heard." Reaching to tenderly cradle her belly in his hands, his eyes slipped shut and the most tranquil expression she had ever seen settled over his features, making serene what was normally so harsh. And he whispered, "Hello, my son."

With this unexpected revelation it all became too much, and her knees buckled under her. He caught her up and eased them both down onto the dais, pulling her into his lap. "Are you all right?" he asked, brushing the hair from her face.

She sobbed and laughed and patted his chest. "I have never been better. Oh, Sandor, do you have any least idea of what we've done?"

"Do I look a bloody fool to you?" he gently retorted. She laid her cheek against his chest and felt the low rumble as he spoke. "We've made a son, you and I. One day he'll be king in the North." They fell quiet for a time, content to hold and be held, becoming reacquainted through small touches and letting those speak for them. Sandor's massive hand began smoothing up and down her belly and she felt the peacefulness of his touch passing through her and to their child. "I'll not have my son raised a bastard," he suddenly blurted. "Have they made you … have you taken a husband?"

She smiled and turned to nuzzle against his chest. "I have. He holds us in his arms."

That elicited a short, fierce embrace and she returned it as he told her, "All for the better, then. I don't relish the notion of killing to take back what's mine. But I would, if need be."

"I have no doubt of that."

Sandor kissed the crown of her head and announced, "We'll set out for Winterfell on the morrow, before it's too late. The babe must be born there. You know that, don't you?"

"I do. But it is this very day that we'll leave. Preparations are underway even now. If you had been any later in coming …"

"It makes no matter. I would've found you – both of you. I should have come with you from the start." He loosened his grip on her and raised her chin in his fingers, until he could look in her eyes. "I'm a bloody stubborn and prideful man. It almost cost me what I hold most dear. That will not happen again. I mean to do it right this time, little bird, I swear it." Dipping his head, he claimed her mouth once more.

They were just drawing apart as the doors of the hall came open and the Blackfish stepped inside. Sansa watched as he blinked and squinted, his eyes adjusting to the relative twilight, and wondered what he must be thinking as he took in the sight of her intimately cradled on the lap of such a notorious and fearsome warrior. And then discovered she didn't much care.

"The wagons are loaded, my lady. We'll leave whenever you're ready." His gaze grew steely when it shifted to Sandor.  "And you," he warned, "if ever you do anything to hurt her or that child, it'll be me removing your head and displaying it on a pike. Is that clear?" Without waiting for a response, he spun on his heel and left the hall. They exchanged a glance and Sansa smiled at the expression on Sandor's face.

"The bloody hells was that?" he asked.

"You've just had the honor of being threatened by my lady mother's uncle."

"The Blackfish?"

"Yes."

He grunted disdainfully. "Well, if that's the best he can do …"

She playfully pushed at him and chided, "Hush, now. He is a good man and means well."

"Might be he does, but he agreed to this inexcusable lack of security, I'll wager. Am I right?" Sandor didn't wait for a response, tucking her close instead. "It don't matter, it's my watch now, and will be for the all the days to come." He pressed a kiss to her hair. "So tell me, little bird, is this as good as one of your songs or one of those bloody fairy tales you love so well?"

"No," she answered him with the utmost sincerity. "It is better."


	7. Coda

  
_I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow._

_I feel my fate in what I cannot fear._

_I learn by going where I have to go._

_We think by feeling. What is there to know?*_

And so it was she caught them unaware. Slipping carefully down the stairs into the crypt, Sansa stopped at the bottom and listened for their voices. She followed the muffled sounds down one long corridor and slowed as it intersected with another.

"And this one?" she heard Sandor ask. His voice came to her clearly and she knew she'd found them. But she stopped before rounding the corner, eavesdropping on the conversation instead.

"Brandon the Shipwright," came the answer. "And here next to him is his son, called Brandon the Burner."

"Why was he the Burner?"

"Because he put the whole of the Northern fleet to the torch when his father disappeared on the Sunset Sea."

"Good. You've been paying attention."

"Maester Ferryn says I'm very smart for my age."

"A fine thing, too. A king requires more than a strong arm if he is to be a good ruler. A sharp mind can be a more formidable weapon than any sword. Remember that."

"I will, Papa. Can I go now? Alyn says a mummer's troupe arrived last night and they're setting up a stage inside the east gate. I want to watch." There was an extended silence and Sansa could almost see her husband's expression as he pondered their son's request.

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt. But I want Tristopher with you. I'd go myself but I must look in on your lady mother."

"No need for that, I'm right here," Sansa announced as she stepped around the corner. Two pair of gray eyes found her, both set in long, angular faces and framed by dark hair. But the boy had her curls rather than his father's thinner locks.

"Mother!" Sansa returned her son's embrace the best she could, as he ran to her and threw his arms around her hips. "You're up!" She returned her son's smile and glanced up at his father. The look she received was much as she'd imagined it would be.

"You should be abed, wife," he gently rebuked.

"It has been three days. I've given birth, not sustained a battle injury. I'm fine."

She closed the distance between them as Sandor held out his arms. "What are you thinking bringing the babe down here? This is no fit place for a child. Give her here."

"I'm a child," their son pointed out as Sansa carefully placed the girl in her father's arms. Sandor shot him a sour look and lifted the baby to kiss her smooth pink brow.

"Hello, my little bird," he hoarsely murmured, then buried his nose at her plump neck and cooed at her. Sansa couldn't help but smile at the sight of this large man so undone by an infant.

"She's odd looking," their son thoughtfully interjected. "And she's noisy and smells of milk. Do we really have to keep her?"

Sansa chortled. "Yes, we do. She is your sister and she will look to you to protect her when she's older and to make certain she is treated honorably."

"Is that what a king would do?" He glanced at the both of them, but all of Sandor's attention was focused on his daughter.

"Yes it is," Sansa told him. "Now, run along. And remember what your father said. Take Tristopher with you."

She watched as he skipped down the corridor, a bright and beautiful child of six. And suddenly she was overcome by the feeling that this moment had happened before, that she had stood in this very spot and seen him speed away on long skinny legs. Before she could think, Sansa called out his name.

"Eddard!"

He stopped and turned to her, his expression open and carefree, his eyes sparkling with good humor. Sandor stepped to her side as the echo of her call faded, wrapping an arm around her waist and drawing her close. She tried to shake off the queer feeling, smiling widely at the boy. "I love you," she told him.

The smile she received in return was dazzling. "Love you, too!" he proclaimed and, wheeling around again, sped off around the corner like an arrow shot from a bow. She felt Sandor's appraising eyes on her long before he spoke.

"Sansa, what is it?"

She shook her head in bemusement. "It's nothing. A fragment of a dream, that's all." She pulled loose from his grasp and turned to him. "If you would take her to the nursery, I'll be along shortly. There is something I must do while I'm here." She saw his hesitation but he finally nodded, leaned to kiss her brow, and followed their son out.

Before long she found herself, torch in hand, standing before her father's sepulcher. She studied his likeness for several minutes and absorbed the stillness surrounding her, the silence broken only by the soft hiss of the torch's flame. She stepped closer, until her toes touched the base of the tomb.

"The boy wasn't you at all, was he?" she whispered. "Even then, a part of me knew, though I could not see it clearly for my fears. But you knew, didn't you? You knew my strength long before I did. We've done it, Daddy, just as you asked. The North has risen again and a Stark once more sits the throne of Winterfell. I only wish you were here to see it."

Sniffing, she wiped away tears and kissed the tips of her wet fingers, bringing them to the stern line of her father's mouth and holding them there for a moment. Then she placed the torch into a ring set in the wall and made her way out of the crypts and into the sun-filled courtyard of the only home she had ever known.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Excerpt from The Waking by Theodore Roethke
> 
> A/N: The final chapter and the coda are dedicated to Kallie. She was so afraid this story wouldn't have a happy ending. After all the gifts of art she's generously bestowed upon the SanSan community, how could I do any less than write the best ending I possibly could for her?
> 
> Thank you one and all for your patience as I struggled with this one. Not long after this story was begun, my mother entered the hospital and took up a protracted battle for her life. I'm happy to say she's much improved and things are looking up. But because this story deals with subjects such as loss and disappointment and the bonds that form and remain even in the face of separation and death, some of it was pretty painful to delve into, hence the slow progress. I offer apologies to all my readers and my profound appreciation for those who stuck with me. Thank you so much for coming along for the ride!
> 
> Until next time …


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